


Reaching as I Fall

by apokteino



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Dean Winchester, Angst, Bottom Castiel, Drama, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Jason Bourne with Angels, M/M, Plotty, Political Intrigue, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-04
Updated: 2011-10-04
Packaged: 2017-10-24 07:31:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 74,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/260692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apokteino/pseuds/apokteino
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Service to God was the meaning of existence; service to Michael is nothing but slavery.” Castiel is part of an underground network helping angels fall, in resistance to heaven. At the same time that a fallen angel by the name of Dean Winchester turns up, some of those in the network are murdered by Michael’s forces – there’s a spy. What does Dean have to do with it? Who is Dean? And why are they hunting him so fiercely?</p><p>A story about love, family, and choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reaching as I Fall

**Author's Note:**

> **Title:** **Reaching as I Fall**  
>  **Author:** apokteino  
>  **Fandom/Genre:** SPN, drama, romance, angst, spy thriller of a sort  
>  **Pairing(s):** Dean/Castiel  
>  **Rating:** NC-17  
>  **Word Count:** 74,000  
>  **Warnings:** Death of original and canon minor characters, one death of a semi-major character, violence.
> 
>  **Artist:** lolryne  
>  **Art link:**[Art Masterlist](http://lolryne.livejournal.com/25275.html) (contains spoilers for the fic)

Castiel’s cell phone beeps. He reaches into the pocket of his jeans, looks down, the silver light of the cell flashing across his face. _Latitude: 47-41'19'' N, Longitude: 093-11'46'' W._ Nothing else.

He sighs, turns away from the vast emptiness of the Grand Canyon – the depths not quite visible to human eyes this late at night, with no moon – and lets his wings spread, shifting across dimensions before piercing through them like a sword through water, effortless gliding until he abruptly stops, halting in a small forest, the sliver of reality he’d left behind him closing. He looks up, and waits.

There’s a piercing light, sharp and then fading, falling. It looks like nothing more than a meteor heating up and burning as it falls through the atmosphere, save for that initial flash, the birth of it; the pain of _re_ birth, of pulling a part of yourself outside and casting it away. Castiel jumps forward, wings aflutter, steps turning into hundreds of meters, following. He curls his right hand into a loose fist, forcing a small container into existence with a small portion of his grace. Only grace can hold grace, after all, just as only an angel can kill another angel.

Castiel has had the opportunity to test both, the latter more frequently than he would like.

He walks forward again, simply this time, dirt beneath his feet, small twigs snapping as he moves. He sees the tree the grace hit, a small sapling that glows to his eyes. His breath fogs in front of him, but he doesn’t feel the cold as he kneels, takes the container out and tries coaxing the grace in. It’s different, every time, how the grace reacts. He can force it, of course, but he prefers not to. He has no evidence to prove it, but he feels like the transition is easier, afterwards, when the grace rejoins the angel. Such a transference is dangerous without help, and even with it, Castiel prefers to take all the care he can. He waits precious minutes, then closes the top of the container, putting it into his jeans.

“Oh, _Caaastiel_ ,” comes an off-key, sing-song voice.

Castiel turns to meet Uriel’s smile with a flat look of his own, already loosening his blade from its sheath. “Let us end this,” he says, letting his blade fall to his hand.

“What? You don’t want the whole rigmarole? I can offer forgiveness – again – or provide one of the arguments for keeping unity …” Uriel’s smile widens, tinged with bitterness. “Personally, though, I would prefer a fight.”

“I would not,” Castiel says, but readies himself anyway. Uriel, he knows, will not listen to anything he has to say.

The slight downward twitch of Uriel’s wings telegraphs his next move – he flashes forward, into range, and strikes from above, using all his considerable strength to drive Castiel almost to his knees. The sound of the clash of their blades rings for a second, both to human ears and angelic ones. Then Castiel lets it slide down almost to his hand, Uriel’s blade hitting the hilt, and tries to twist his blade around to disarm Uriel.

It fails, and Uriel is dancing back as he laughs, setting back on his feet and away from Castiel, while Castiel takes a deep breath. Whatever mercy Uriel had shown in their first meeting like this, it’s gone now.

Castiel feels a small shiver of fear at that thought. Last time, he’d lived only be escaping. Uriel knows him well, knows how he fights. He feels he will not have the same opportunity to flee here.

The humor fades from Uriel’s face, and Castiel decides to fight this the way he would prefer, not Uriel. He launches himself through reality, fast, faster than Uriel, but not fast enough to escape notice, to be unseen. To put all of his energy there is asking to be struck down in another way. Uriel follows, waiting patiently for Castiel to stop, knowing that he must. Castiel reenters the human plane of existence in the middle of a desert, and turns to match Uriel’s blow. The blade slices into his shoulder, and Castiel lets it. He flickers, going a few hundred meters and taking Uriel with him, still holding on his blade. Uriel lets loose a very human grunt, and then a snarl when Castiel’s wings – Castiel’s flight – leaves him off balance long enough for Castiel to see an opening and take it, causing a similar wound in Uriel’s side.

They break apart, both gasping.

“Would you really kill your brother?” Uriel asks.

“Would you?” Castiel replies, knowing all the names of those Uriel has killed. He doesn’t wait for an answer, knows the words mask weakness, tightens his grip on his blade and attacks again, feinting first, then going for Uriel’s wounded side.

Uriel’s expecting it, and manages to backhand Castiel hard enough that Castiel stumbles, holding out a hand to catch himself. The sand beneath his fingers shifts, and he rolls to the side just quickly enough to see the Uriel’s blade bury itself into the sand, where Castiel was. He’s on his back in less than a second, and Uriel stabs again, a blow Castiel catches by holding Uriel’s hands, but the force of it makes him drop his own blade, which Uriel awkwardly pushes away.

Death is close, Castiel realizes.

Uriel doesn’t ask if he yields; Castiel knows that’s against protocol, because it’s orders to catch angels like Castiel when possible, so they can be interrogated. Instead, Uriel uses the opportunity to push the blade past Castiel’s frantic grip and right into his abdomen. Castiel’s muscles seize and pain flares, white-hot, and he feels blood bubble in his mouth, slip past his lips.

Uriel starts to smile, relaxing.

Castiel grabs Uriel’s blade, pulls it out of himself, and almost manages to strike a surprised Uriel, who stumbles backwards. Castiel flips the blade, blood flying, so it’s in a proper grip. Uriel’s eyes narrow, and he backs up to take Castiel’s blade in place of his own.

“Will you yield?” Uriel asks finally.

“No,” and Castiel attacks.

They meet again, and he doesn’t know if it’s pure desperation or an answer to his prayers, but he sees a moment of faltering within Uriel, and he uses it. Uriel is stabbed through the throat with his own blade, surprise in his dark brown eyes, which fade, colorless as light flows out of his body, the last remnants of his grace marking the ground beneath him in the shape of burned wings.

Castiel stands there for a second, breath hitching; a lung collapsed. He retrieves his blade, and lifts wearied wings to fly around the world, to one of the safe-houses. It’s a house with no windows or doors, dark when he arrives, lights coming on with a flick of his wrist. He places both blades on the kitchen table, wheezing from the blood in his lungs. The injuries are severe, but not fatal; angels most often survive anything that doesn’t immediately kill them. The walls are almost black with all the symbols traced on them so carefully, sigils of hiding that work both against demons, angels, and anything else they could possibly think of. They do not create boundaries for angels, though they do for other creatures. These places are for the angels like Castiel, who track down the grace of falling angels and the unknowns, those who fall of their own accord, without telling anyone in the network.

He takes out the container of grace and sets it on the table next to the bloodied blades, watching the glow cease as he lets it go. He moves across the room, to the bed, and lays down, curling around his wound, still feeling the blood pouring out beneath his fingers. Blood Uriel had drawn, blood Uriel shared; not in the human way, but in the grace that had once been Uriel’s life, remnants still on his own blade. Castiel stares sightlessly for a few moments, remembering, then slowly allows himself to forget.

He closes his eyes, and rests.

\-----------------------------

It takes him almost six hours to heal completely. He stays in the safehouse the entire time, deciding travelling isn’t worth the risk, not when he’s disabled. The safehouse has food and running water, but Castiel does not bother with either. Most angels in the network do, largely, Castiel thinks, because they lived a human life before their grace was returned, and eating carries over as a habit.

Castiel is different. He never fell, never tore out his grace. He never wanted to be human; still doesn’t. This was never about falling, not for Castiel. Those that don’t fall aren’t trusted as much as those that do, but … Castiel is different.

He gets up from the bed, testing his body, his grace. He considers where his cell probably is, where the one he needs to speak to probably is; he cannot call to them, the way he used to be able to with his brothers and sisters, when they had the heart of heaven, the single voice of the host.

He appears in California, on a beach.

Balthazar looks up from where he’s lounging in only swim shorts, and takes off his sunglasses. “You do realize popping in and out like that attracts attention?”

Castiel frowns, eyeing Balthazar instead of answering the question. “You are a hedonist.”

“Very human of me, isn’t it?” He leans forward, eyes twinkling with humor. “I do try, you know.”

Castiel looks at him expressionlessly. “Did you track down the angel as he or she was falling? Anyone watching?”

Balthazar shakes his head. “Nope. No one nearby. Also got a list of possible parents, if it is born anywhere close to the spot where the grace fell.” He rummages in the pack beside him, and takes out a file. He hands it to Castiel. “Are you ever going to tell me what you do with these? Where they go when they’ve lived their little human lives?”

“You know the reasons –“

Balthazar waves a hand, dismissive. “You are far too paranoid, little brother.”

“Perhaps,” Castiel says, not wishing to argue. It would be pointless. Humans call it ‘need to know’. Balthazar does not need to know. He has seized upon a human lifestyle, but only portions. The luxuries, the human lusts – yes. Balthazar, as a soldier of heaven, was never too fond of battle, and quite fond of being lazy, and even after decades of being on earth, he still indulges.

“Did it go well?” Balthazar asks.

Castiel looks down, then at the sea, hears the dull roar. “Uriel is dead.”

Balthazar pauses, grimacing. “And the grace?”

“Safe, of course.” It was what he was fighting for.

“Of course,” Balthazar echoes. “Castiel would never fail a mission, after all.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Castiel says impatiently, then changes the subject. “Be ready to meet with the others in two days. We have received word that there are at least two other unknowns. We think they are being hunted.”

“Received word from who?” Then Balthazar stops himself. “Never mind. I’ll be there.” He slips his sunglasses back on, leans back.

Castiel nods and flits away.

He arrives in another safehouse, away from prying eyes. Anna – Anael, but she chose to keep her human name – is already there, waiting. She smiles when she sees him, approaches and gives him a hug. “Cas,” she says warmly.

Castiel awkwardly puts his arms around her, loosens the touch as soon as she draws back, taking a step back awkwardly. He hands the container with the angel’s grace to her, which she takes without a word.

“So two unknowns?” Castiel inquires, hands hanging at his sides.

“Always business with you, Cas,” Anna says, not insulted. “Yes. We’re not sure when they fell, we just know that two are being hunted by Michael’s soldiers.” She turns away, heads for the kitchen table, which is covered by several large maps, piled upon each other.

“Do we know where they are?” Castiel asks, following her. There are markings all over the map on top, locations circled in various colors. Red stands for confirmed sightings of Michael’s soldiers; blue for locations of allies; green for fallen angels still human and anonymous; and yellow for possible sightings of Michael’s soldiers. Their ability to track heaven’s movements is as limited as heaven’s methods are for the network, so the red and yellow circles are scarce. Sometimes they are forced to wait for more, in order to make their own tracking of unknowns easier – or possible. Heaven’s resources are much larger than their own, if less varied. At times, their first trace of an unknown is by the movement of Michael’s soldiers.

“One is on the east coast; the other, I have no idea. They seem to be going everywhere. The only pattern I could discern was that they seem to be searching along the highways.”

“That’s strange,” Castiel says. “They don’t normally pay attention to that sort of detail.” He reaches out and traces the highways along the red and yellow circles, pausing at the dates, scribbled in blank ink. Definitely a pattern, though it crisscrosses most of the Midwest.

“If they are going to start paying more attention to human structures – and human technology – we may have a problem,” Anna says, shifting her gaze from the map to meet his eyes. “Their arrogance in assuming no human technique can match theirs … losing that advantage would be bad.”

“We knew it would happen eventually. The repeated failures they’ve had would naturally result in a change of tactics.” He shakes his head. “At any rate, it will take them time to figure out cell phones, and we’re always careful to burn ours. We’ve prepared for this, Anna.”

“I know.” She rubs her forehead, then pushes a hand through her red hair. She takes a breath, rolls her tongue around in her mouth thoughtfully, then looks at him. “So which one do you want to take?”

“The highway traveler.”

“You would choose the more difficult,” Anna muses. “I’ll let Haniel’s cell know to take the other. With a little luck, soon we’ll have a couple new ones to guide through the underground angel railroad.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says with a nod. He takes another look at the map, noting areas he could search first, memorizing the details.

Anna lays a hand on his shoulder, a warm weight. “I’ll see you later.”

“Hm.”

A whoosh of air, then silence.

So: an adult. Adults are usually the ones hunted because those fallen angels who remember nothing tend not to attract attention. Those that are older are more likely to remember bits and pieces, as well as overhear heaven, though that’s less of a problem than it used to be; they don’t want the network listening in, and so have learned to guard their communication.

Travelling also indicates adulthood; children tend not to travel this consistently. Possibly some kind of job requiring the travel, a trucker or sales, maybe. The endless variety of professions fallen angels come into never ceases to surprise him. The ones that go into religious ministry most of all.

He looks up from the maps, and turns the light off before he goes.

He starts in the Midwest, a highway in the middle of nowhere. The sun is just beginning to rise, clouds tinged in orange, the yellowed grass cast even further into the color. It’s cold, the cold of fall, but not yet bitter winter. He looks east, and starts walking along the dirt bordering the road, sneakers silent as he goes. He stretches his senses as far as they can go, waiting for the slightest quiver, the slightest hint of anything supernatural. Fallen angels don’t look holy, but there is always something off, something slightly strange when looked at in astral sight. You have to be close – in the same room kind of close – to tell for certain, to see it. It’s what makes falling initially so safe, what makes it so hard to find them before the forces of heaven do. They simply have more eyes than Castiel or his cell ever could.

He’ll call them eventually. He gives himself two days to do it alone, following the ebb and flow of the supernatural world, listening for the echoes of echoes a fallen angel might leave. Michael’s followers cannot do the same with precision– they lack the affinity for this plane, their methods more forceful, less subtle. Subtlety is a useful tool for all in the network, these days. It’s unlikely that he’ll find the person in this timeframe, but it gives him a better idea of where to send the members of his cell, when the time does come, and he feels like it’s safer. He trusts his cell, yet he keeps something back. He’s not sure why. Perhaps it is just his nature, since his rebellion.

He walks for hours. The sun turns the land warm, though Castiel can hardly tell the difference. He sees more cars, which makes him dip further into the grass, so he doesn’t look like he’s hitchhiking.

He stops, waits. He feels nothing; his instincts tell him nothing. There is only life here, nothing off kilter. Then he spreads his wings and flies, maybe a hundred miles, and begins again, tireless. More highways, then ponds, lakes.

Then he feels it: a vibration, dying.

It’s in a wooded area, brambles hitting his face as he steps through, twigs snapping beneath his feet, bare limbs of trees casting spidery shadows. He finds the source rather quickly – it’s a grave, freshly dug up, footprints nearby. He takes a deep breath, tastes the faint imprint of ash on his tongue. Someone salted and burned the bones of an unmarked grave. Someone took the time to salt and burn a body.

You only do that to lay a spirit to rest.

Castiel looks up at the blue sky, watches a crow let loose a loud cry and fly away.

Interesting.

He returns to the highway, and knows what he’s looking for now. His fingers twitch slightly as he feels the next one, this time in a small town. A dilapidated building at the edge is the place of it; when he walks along the main road in the town, he can feel the townspeople shying away from it, shying away from even thinking about it. It’s a dark shade, but one slowly lifting, Castiel thinks.

Inside the building is a series of rooms, maybe an old hotel. In one, he finds more ashes, the gleam of silver lying among them. Castiel approaches, wood creaking, and reaches down, letting the ash fall through his fingers. It stinks of evil, even now, and falls easily from his skin, slightly repelled. He stands up, walks around the room, trying to gain the sense of who was here. The odd part is that he doesn’t feel any sense of a fallen angel, but his instincts tell him he’s on the right path. Maybe someone the fallen one knows, then.

He needs to find more, to be certain, to determine what his next course of action should be.

It’s a long a lonely road – littered with dirt, concrete split by the irresistible force of weeds, water, and time – that he finds the next remnants, and by then the day has fallen to dark. It was a black dog, bound to the road, he’s fairly certain, by some violent act committed here. Darkness seems to make murky the surroundings, even still. Most black dogs are, in Castiel’s experience, fairly harmless, as they can serve as protectors as well as sometimes being malicious. The sense of the place seems to suggest the latter was true in this case, although he does wonder how anyone could have found something so remote. Such a place would rarely receive visitors to be victimized. This suggests that either the hunter is very skilled, or that it is the fallen angel who found the place, and he or she is using some part of the supernatural force that remains to be sensitive to such places.

And – there. So _quiet_. Castiel cocks his head, fingers spreading, calling for like with like. He extends his grace beyond his body, a thing which would blind any normal to human to see, and feels himself react to the traces, lets it mark him, so that he can know it, and know it anywhere. Faint, it sinks into his grace, and he pulls it back within, the road darkening once again.

His fallen angel is a hunter.

He spreads his wings, then pauses. He kneels in the middle of the road, places his hand on it, palm down. He lets loose a little pulse of his grace, purifying the land.

Then he rises, and flies.

The place he goes is known, but not frequented by either side – heaven or the rebel network. It is of very little interest to either. The humans are unaware of the shifting battlefield their world has become, which Castiel’s side prefers, for humanity’s safety. So to hunters, there is no such thing as angels.

Castiel has never been to the Harvelle’s Roadhouse, but he is familiar with what it is, who goes there, and the fact that he should be able to walk in and out without any problem. Almost anything else, the Roadhouse would be impenetrable, so laden it is with traps and bindings, but the knowledge of how to stop an angel from entering or leaving a place is essentially lost. Even the demons still on earth that may have once known are mostly gone, caught in the crossfire. Castiel, and many of the others, enjoy taking time out to smite a demon or two, the moral implications so much easier than the rest of their battles, so any arising of demons is often dealt with before hunters even become aware. A silent gift to their unknowing hosts, perhaps.

He appears half a mile away, and begins to walk. The parking lot is filled with all kinds of cars – new, old, used. The electric sign flickers when Castiel nears, and he carefully restrains his presence, waiting for it to blink back on, steady.

When he enters, he almost walks into a man leaving. The man looks at him up and down, and snorts. “Go somewhere else, kid. This ain’t your kind of bar.”

Castiel’s eyebrows quirk upwards, and he pushes past the man, stepping fully into the bar. There’s a certain degree of smoke, less than he’d noticed in other places similar to this. The place is worn but clearly cared for, and while the patrons look rougher than Castiel generally sees humans to be, there’s a certain air of respect for where they are. Castiel finds it hard to define, hard to pin down, but these people are both dangerous and yet clean, souls bright. They view him darkly, laden with suspicion; there's no innocence here. They will not hurt him unless he gives them cause to do so, but he gathers that his attire – a light blue sweater and jeans – doesn’t mesh with this place as well as it does with others. He stands out.

Still, he walks to the bar. A woman stands there, middle-aged with light brown hair to her shoulders, and he is fairly certain this is Ellen. She doesn’t stop what she’s doing, cleaning out a glass and giving him a look full of skepticism.

It occurs to Castiel, suddenly, that Anna would have been better at this. “Hello,” he says.

“What?” replies Ellen, flat.

“I was hoping you could help me,” Castiel begins.

“Take a left out of the parking lot, it’s a mile back to the highway,” Ellen finishes for him, done with one glass and putting it away, taking another.

“I am not lost,” Castiel says, wondering yet again why he gets asked that question so often. Does he look permanently befuddled? “This is regarding a hunt I was on. It was completed by someone else, before I got there. I need to know who it was.”

Harvelle leans over the counter. “Are you scamming me?”

Castiel blinks. “No.”

“Why on earth would you need to know such a thing? And what makes you think I would know?” she demands, quickly, one after the other. He supposes her suspicion is natural – hunters are not known to the public, any more than angels are. Probably less, actually. Some people still do believe in angels, if a less than accurate version.

“You hear things in your profession,” Castiel says. “And I have heard this is a gathering place for hunters.”

Harvelle puts the glass down. “And you are?” she asks curtly.

“I assure you, I mean him or her no harm.”

“That’s not an answer,” she says.

“A black dog in Kansas, unsettled spirit in Colorado, shifter in Wyoming,” Castiel continues calmly. “I need to know how he found them. It took me some time to track those hunts down, and yet he found them before I did.”

“So you’re a hunter?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, without a trace of guilt for the lie.

She looks at him closely for a moment, then asks, “How did you hear of this bar? I’ve never seen you before.”

Castiel begins to answer with another lie, then stops. He slips his hand from the bar, allows his gaze to drift, focusing, and lets his blade fall into his hand.

There’s a rush of air, and Castiel is whirling to block the blow before it’s done. Their blades clash, and out of the corner of his eye he sees the hunters begin to react, pulling out a variety of guns with a few knives. They will only get themselves hurt, so with a thought, he pushes, hard, and they fly away from the fight and out of their chairs, right into the walls. There’s no screams, but grunts and curses become a background noise. He keeps them there, hovering a foot from the floor, as the angel before him disengages temporarily.

“Yield,” the angel says. Gaeriel, he realizes, in a male vessel.

“I will not,” Castiel says.

“Your death will be quick,” Gaeriel promises. A foot soldier in this war, so he has nothing to say. Not like Uriel.

“I hope the same for you,” Castiel replies wryly.

Gaeriel’s reaction is humorless and swift. He strikes, Castiel dodges. In the background, he hears a hunter begin to say an exorcism rite for demons. The irony does not escape him.

Gaeriel has always been proficient, but Castiel is far more motivated to survive. He has done this before and, with regret, it has gotten easier. Gaeriel is fast, but not fast enough, not guarded enough. Castiel sees the weakness in his form, far more used to the human body he inhabits. He kicks, and Gaeriel loses his blade. Castiel doesn’t hesitate to follow up with a thrust upward, beneath the rib cage and piercing Gaeriel’s heart. Light bursts violently out of him, and his body falls to the floor with a thump.

He lifts his gaze, barely breathing hard.

“What are you?” comes quick and almost breathless, from Harvelle, behind the bar with her arms at her side, still held by Castiel’s power.

“A black dog in Kansas, unsettled spirit in Colorado, shifter in Wyoming,” Castiel repeats. He leans over Gaeriel’s body, takes his blade. “I want a name.”

Harvelle spits. It doesn’t quite reach him.

He turns to the others, considering. Gaeriel’s presence was completely unexpected and unplanned for. How he came across Castiel is a mystery, though they are likely searching for the same person; he doesn’t believe in coincidence. This means Michael’s soldiers are closer than suspected. He does not have much time to find the fallen angel, or Michael’s forces will catch up to him and her, and death will be the immediate result. Castiel is tired of losing unknowns. It’s easier to keep safe those that warn of their falling, but such warnings cannot always be safely sent.

“I want the name,” Castiel says again, evenly. There’s stubbornness, on most faces. He looks for the weakest, the most afraid. There aren’t many, here. They all believe they are staring death in the face and are defiant, but Castiel has no intention of hurting them. Permanently, anyway. He will get information no other way, not now, with the revelation that he is a supernatural being.

He walks up to a young woman, a teenager with blond hair, eyes wide and terrified, but still insolent.

He feels more than sees Harvelle react. He glances back, then at the girl again. “I want the name,” he repeats. “And his or her location,” he adds after a second.

“I won’t,” Harvelle says, but he sees it now: the rising fear, the vulnerability. Most likely, the girl is her daughter.

He turns back, and twists his hand.

Blood bubbles from the girl’s mouth, and she lets loose a whimper.

“No!” Harvelle screams.

“The _name_ ,” Castiel repeats, turning his head to look at Harvelle.

“John Winchester,” Ellen says finally, the words pulled from her, guilt already twisting inside of her, visible in her aura. “He was on the shifter hunt. I don’t know where he is, and that’s the truth.”

Castiel considers. “A phone number?”

A certain look in her eyes. “I don’t know.”

“Yes,” Castiel says. “Tell me.”

She does. Castiel waits a second, feels the truth of it, and turns back to the girl. She flinches back from his touch, but he doesn’t hesitate. Two fingers to her temple, and the damage he had wrought is completely undone. He feels a second of gratitude that he can still do this; that his connection to heaven’s power remains, one of the few mysteries they have kept from Michael’s soldiers. He would not trade a human life for an angelic one.

“I’m sorry,” he says to her, truthful, and releases everyone in the room.

He’s gone before their feet touch the floor.

\-----------------------------

He hangs up the payphone. The number has already been disconnected; Harvelle or one of the other hunters had worked quickly.

Castiel frowns, taps his cell phone in his jeans pocket, then disappears off the sidewalk.

He reappears across the country, outside a house located at the end of an old street, surrounded by barren trees so thick one cannot side see the house inside. It’s separated from anything surrounding it, both by history – nothing important has ever happened in the town a few miles away, no supernatural hotspots – and distance, as well as being supported by gas generators and a well. Completely isolated and off the books. Michael’s soldiers aren’t yet using county records to track down the network, but they’ve taken precautions anyway, this place being a prime example.

He goes past the white picket fence and carefully tended lawn to knock on the door.

Within a minute, Justine’s face peeks past the open door. “Hi, Cas.”

“I need to track a number.” He pauses. “Hello.”

She opens the door fully. “Gimme a minute,” she says and turns away, walking to a back room.

Castiel follows, shutting the door behind him, knowing the room Justine is going to. (Her real name is Aariuel, but she found she preferred the easier-to-pronounce Justine from her human life; Castiel doesn’t see the difference save for an inconsequential number of syllables.) The setup isn’t complicated, as it doesn’t need to be, so Justine’s office, in what was probably once the dining room, consists of three computers and a variety of technical books.

She sits down before the laptop, pushes dark hair behind one ear. “Number?”

He gives it. She nods, starts tracking down the provider, and from there, he can see her checking tower records. Each separate phone call is given a number, as well as the tower used being recorded, so she can find out where John Winchester was, at least. Castiel doesn’t know the exact details of how she does it, which is why he needs help.

“You want a whole list of where he’s been on this phone, or just the most recent?” Justine asks.

“Recent,” Castiel says. “I’m hoping by moving quickly I’ll get there before he moves too far.”

“Serena, New Mexico,” Justine says. “What do you want him for?”

“One of the fallen, maybe.”

She nods and smiles. “Be nice to have another newbie around.”

Castiel frowns. “He is as old as any of us.”

She waves her hand. “Never mind. Sometimes I forget how difficult you find human slang.”

Castiel blinks, then dismisses the discussion. “Thank you for the information.”

“You’re welcome.”

\-----------------------------

John Winchester is a hunter, and obviously a frequent traveler, judging by both his profession and the hunts Castiel found. So the first places Castiel looks are long-term motels and short-term apartments. He searches without knocking on doors, hoping to find the particular wavelength he’d detected on the black dog hunt. He walks through crowded streets, over broken sidewalks, and past so many drug dealers he began to lose count. None of the areas he is searching are what humans would consider ‘good’, but Castiel holds no fear for humans, not even armed ones. He ignores them entirely.

He does not find what he’s looking for. Either the trace the fallen angel is leaving is too faint, or he was not here at all. Only instinct suggests the hunts Castiel found were even related. The trace could have been left by a partner of John Winchester, rather than John Winchester himself. Or the trace could have been left by a lover or family member. None of which helps, because hunters do not register anywhere under their own names. Most survive by credit card fraud, after all. The other problem is that John Winchester is a common enough human name that he can’t google for him easily. (Castiel is familiar with the internet, intrigued by some uses and horrified by others.) Otherwise searching for tragedies and the name might have worked, had the name been more unique. Most hunters are not born into the business.

By the time three hours pass, Castiel stops. Winchester is no doubt out of town, and headed in some direction, moving as fast and far as possible.

Perhaps he can go back along John Winchester’s path, and find him that way. Find out who he is, where he was born, and track his character, judge from there where he is likely to have gone.

He appears outside Justine’s door, and stops.

He places his hand on the frame of the door. It’s splintered, near the doorknob. The force came from the inside, not the outside. He traces it too lightly to get splinters, then pushes the door open.

Beyond the entrance, in the doorway of the back room, he sees the tip of a wing, burned into the wood floor. Justine. He steps forward, and –

Holy oil. He sees it alight, a curve like a C around him, and he raises his wings and flies, desperate and fast. The ring closes behind him, scorching him instead of killing him outright as he passes over part of the circle. He crashes back into reality only miles away, falling forward and catching himself with his hands in dried grass. His wings feel like they’re on fire, and he groans. He tries to lever himself up, and ends up falling backwards onto his ass.

He sees two angels appear in front of him, in a male and female vessel – Michael’s soldiers – and despite the pain, he spreads his wings and takes flight again, farther this time, pain flowing through him like water. He’s in a forest, again, trees curving up around him. He stumbles to a solid trunk, slumps sideways against it, his back hurting. It’s the only physical manifestation his body can manage for the damage to his wings. He waits, but no one follows. They were lower level ones, then, not as fast as him. There had been no time to recognize them.

After several minutes of deep breathing, he takes out his cell phone. Did Justine destroy all her records? He knows she had some phone numbers and not others. Some names, not others. Only cell leaders knew Justine, knew who she was, cell leaders like him and Haniel. Anna, of course, knew, but it’s unlikely any of them managed to take down Anna and get any information from her – she’s powerful, one of the most powerful to fall.

He dials Anna’s number.

“Castiel,” she says. “Two cells were wiped out. Are you well?”

Castiel swallows, and gives the code word. “Dandy.”

A shaky sigh on the line. “Go where we first met our new lives.” And hangs up.

It takes Castiel a moment to remember.

Then he spread his wings, still aching, and is there.

The cemetery is silent and empty. It’s an old cemetery, some stones so old the names have been lost, none very recent , save one. This area is remote, the town that once fed these graves with bodies abandoned for decades. The cemetery shows those signs of wear, in the wild grass covering names, weeds growing here and there, the heavy bows of the trees hanging low. Wild and unkempt.

“I always feared we would end up here again someday,” Anna’s voice comes, soft.

Castiel turns. “We are not dead yet.”

She walks to a grave, the stone jutting up two feet, the name Castiel had inscribed himself. _Anna Milton._ She rests her hand on the top. “It was here you told me the truth.”

“Service to God was the meaning of existence; service to Michael is nothing but slavery,” Castiel says quietly.

“And then I took my grace back, to fight.”

Castiel sighs, hands curling into fists, then purposefully relaxing. “We have a spy.”

She nods in agreement. “What happened?”

“Justine is dead,” Castiel says. “I was almost trapped by holy oil when I walked in. This was carefully planned – I was only gone for a few hours, and they took her.”

“Is your cell intact?”

“I don’t know. Probably not. If they found Justine, they may know who’s in my cell. Only cell leaders and above knew her, Anna. That does not leave a large list.”

“Unless someone found out something they shouldn’t have. We don’t know for sure that we’ve been infiltrated that deeply,” Anna argues. “I can’t think of any cell leader I don’t trust, that I even have the slightest doubt about.”

“But cell members … we do have ones that never fell. That never experienced human independence.” Castiel himself is among that number, of course, but his situation is somewhat different from theirs. “But their knowledge is limited. They don’t even know how we made them empty vessels.”

“No, but they’re not stupid. And Michael must surely suspect that we have an archangel. For reasons of power, if nothing else.”

“And he wants to know who and where. Gabriel gone for millennia, Raphael for centuries …” Castiel pauses. “This isn’t about killing us. This is about going up the ladder. That’s why they tried to capture me at Justine’s. How did you find out the other cells were gone?”

“Didn’t meet,” Anna says. “I knew their assignments, tracked them. Found bodies – and one cell leader had died from purposefully stepping over a ring of holy oil fire. Shit.” She runs a hand through her messy hair.

“We have to lie low,” Castiel decides. “Separate completely for a time. I’ll contact my cell, tell them to disperse. You should tell the same to any others you can find.”

“Agreed. Burn your cell, and go to your backup.” She pulls out a flashdrive. “Here’s the assignments we had over the past year. Two heads are better than one.”

Castiel takes it.

Anna takes a deep, even breath. “Meet me back here in six weeks.”

“Be safe,” Castiel says. “You’re the final link to our archangel.”

She raises an eyebrow. “So are you.”

Castiel lifts his wings.

“Wait,” she says, unhurried. “What will you do?”

Castiel stills, then shrugs. “Find the fallen angel, I suppose. Hunting for the mole will take time. Let me know what you find. I’ll search myself as well for signs of Michael’s soldiers, any patterns. We need to figure out who the mole is, and we can only do that by gathering as much information as possible about what’s been going on, on both sides.” He turns to go, again, when her voice, faint, stops him.

“Cas. Good luck.”

Castiel smiles without looking, and Anna shifts away, dead leaves rustling in her wake.

He follows elsewhere, leaving the cemetery the same as when he came to it: untouched, save by time.

\-----------------------------

Castiel puts his cell phone down. None of the members of his cell have picked up, or responded to his message. Balthazar, Ceria, and Wynn. He has done all he can, until they get back in touch. He left a code word as the only message, so if the phones are found by heaven’s forces, the command will not be understood.

Restless, itching, Castiel turns his attention back to John Winchester once again.

John Winchester likes, as far as Castiel can tell, to choose the most difficult and obscure hunts. Not just in terms of the difficulty of the kill, but also the difficulty in finding the hunt in the first place. This would also suggest he likes to keep away from other hunters, using his skills to avoid them while still hunting. The why for that Castiel can’t yet guess.

But if he knows what kind of hunts Winchester likes, then he can find the hunt before Winchester does, and wait.

He stands upon the highways, which are almost like ley lines in how they connect this world, the human world. Power, always shifting, always changing, always moving.

He’s found three possible hunts that Winchester is likely to pursue. None of them are near New Mexico. He’s fairly certain that state will be avoided from now on, which leaves things more east than west. There are major highways all over the place, of course, but he’s been staking out the largest ones, usually for about a day at a time. If Winchester – if the fallen one – travels past, he should feel it and be able to follow. What made tracking difficult in the first place may yet prove the solution.

So he waits, maybe thirty feet from the highway, sitting cross-legged with his wrists balanced on his knees, fingers lax. He’s still for hours, and could be for days. It’s difficult to tell if Winchester’s hunting pattern will change now that he knows someone is looking for him, but it’s the only lead he has. There’s a possible deadly haunting twenty miles in one direction, a ghost along a highway, killing only once a year in another direction thirty-two miles away, and signs of a possible demon (which Castiel promises himself he’ll check out thoroughly later) ten miles away. He’s guessing which ones would be the most important, of course. Who knows how this particular hunter prioritizes things.

That’s when he senses the other angel, near. He can’t define who it is, not yet, but they’re powerful, much more powerful than he is, and not bothering to hide their presence. But the sense of it is shifting, moving. The angel is searching, fearless of being seen or caught. His wake is so powerful, Castiel is fairly certain he can remain unseen.

Castiel has been cunning, when he wants to be. He might be able to pull off following this one.

And this may yet have something to do with the mole. This powerful of an angel, bothering to search for something. Heedless of being seen, even, is all unusual. That would indicate his mission is not as important. Or perhaps it only indicates arrogance. Either way, his mission is of interest to Castiel.

So he follows, quiet.

They pass through a city, and another.

It’s nightfall when the angel stops. Castiel almost instantly loses track of where, because the angel moves so fast that the wake almost disappears.

Castiel stops under a street light. He glances up, light flashing in his eyes, then around. He’s an urban area, streets shining with a sheen of water, rain dusting downward. There’s cars parked along both sides of the street, dark buildings beyond them.

Castiel begins to stroll along the sidewalk, watchful. The rain begins to soak into his sweater, dampen his jeans. Drops of water roll down his face from his hair.

He takes a deep breath and then exhales, as something within sparks. He feels it – like calling to like. The tinge he’d let within himself, within his grace, is here. He moves himself forward a few hundred feet, and finds himself closer. He’s in front of another dark building, a light in a window up above. He looks, and knows: the angel is there, and the fallen angel he’s been looking for is there as well. The conclusion is obvious, and for a second, the instinct to survive wars with the instinct to protect.

He appears in the room. It’s a rundown apartment, the small living space filled with a shattered chair, a table pushed to a wall, that wall covered with newspaper clippings and photographs, scattered notes in a quick scrawl. An envelope with a from address of Stanford University is on the floor.

The angel, in a female vessel and wearing a suit, turns to him, movements unhurried. Her gray eyes are piercing, amused, dismissive. She knows her power, and Castiel’s. “Well well. Little Castiel is here.”

“What are you?” a man snarls, middle-aged, dark hair struck through with gray. A teenage boy and a young man join him, pinned to the far wall, the older man and young man both bleeding from minor wounds to the head or abdomen, like the angel had been playing with them like a cat does a mouse.

“You don’t matter enough to know,” she says dismissively. “Well, Castiel. What are you going to do? Fight me?”

They both know how that will most likely turn out. Castiel dead, the fallen one dead, probably his family dead, and the angel with a mission completed successfully. Whoever she is – Castiel cannot pin down her identity, though clearly she knows him.

Castiel steps in front of the humans, very slowly and deliberately, flaring his wings slightly. “If I must,” he says, and pushes, just so, in order to release the family. He hears them moving behind him – leaving the room, finding weapons, most likely – but the angel focuses on Castiel, as he expected she would, raising her hand instead of her blade.

Pain ignites, flaring as she twists inside of him, wrenching internal organs out of place at the same she wrenches his grace. He can feel blood falling in ribbons from his chest, skin splitting painfully. He moans, falling to his knees, coughing up blood, watching it splatter on the floor.

He raises his eyes to see the man, the father, stab the angel in the back with a large knife. She doesn’t twitch, save to turn her head, and then she grabs him by the shirt with one hand and throws him back.

Castiel doesn’t wait. He smears the blood on the floor, quickly.

She turns back – “No!” she screams, as Castiel completes the sigil and smacks his palm down.

White light burns in the room for a second, fading as she’s pushed away by the banishing. Castiel sees the father trying to stumble to his feet, sees the teenage boy helping him, and then the young man, casting both worried and angry glances at Castiel.

He’s the one, Castiel realizes. He lurches forward and grabs the fallen angel’s wrist, and unexpectedly, a surge of power courses through the both of them. Castiel doesn’t know what it is, but there’s no time, and he cannot take the entire family to a safehouse.

“Think of a safe place,” Castiel says to him, voice hoarse, coughing. They cannot stay here long. She’ll be back.

“What?” the young man says. But he does think: Castiel sees it, dimly. He tightens his grip on the young man, and grabbing hold with his grace of the other two as well, he takes flight. It lasts not even a second, instantaneous to human perception, and they are there, somewhere else. Castiel falls back against a wood floor, sees high ceilings. He hears the father muttering a surprised curse at the change of location, and sees the young man enter his vision again as he blearily raises his head.

He watches the young man, green eyes wide with a mix of terror and determination, as he tries to get out of Castiel’s grip. “What’s your name?” Castiel asks, still holding on.

He blinks. “I, uh. Dean.”

“Dean,” Castiel murmurs, and his head falls back again. He lets go. He sees someone approaching, dressed in black with a white collar. A church. He’s in a church. How ironic. A safe place, indeed.

Then he passes out.

\-----------------------------

Castiel is lying in a bed when he regains consciousness. He flails, confused, and feels something around his wrist the same time he hears something snap. He opens his eyes to find himself in a small room, homey with a painting of a Bible verse hanging on the wall. There’s a blanket over his legs. His hands brush against his chest, which is still covered by his bloody sweater but considerably less painful now, and there’s a cuff dangling from his wrist.

“Hello, Castiel.”

Castiel turns his head. It’s the priest that he saw before losing consciousness. He is sitting in a chair beside the bed, and puts a Bible on the small nightstand. “Hello,” Castiel says calmly.

Beyond the priest, there’s the father in another bed. He doesn’t appear to be conscious, and the fallen angel and teenage boy are by his side, the boy in a chair, the older one upright as if he was pacing before. The older one – Dean – starts to rush over, only being stopped by the priest’s hand. “Dean,” the priest says.

“What are you? Why are you after my dad? Who was that other – thing?” Dean demands.

Castiel gazes at him for a moment, then sits up. His chest twinges, but he is mostly healed, physically. “I was searching for you, not your father.”

Dean looks - not quite as taken aback as he should be. “Me? Why?”

Castiel looks at the father – John Winchester, he is sure – instead of answering. “Will he recover?”

“Like you care?” Dean snaps.

Castiel stares at him steadily, and then focuses his attention on the cuff, putting one finger through the gap between his wrist and the cuff and pulling, the metal bending then snapping clean in two.

“I – yes, I think so,” Dean says at last, looking unnerved.

“Who are you?” the priest finally interrupts, voice quiet but with a weight behind it.

“A friend,” Castiel says, without turning from Dean. He’s young, this Dean. Castiel would say no more than twenty-one, twenty-two. He’s got a long cut above his right eye, mixed with a bruise, which makes his eyes look absurdly green in contrast. There are bruises around his neck, and he’s holding himself in a way that suggests cracked or broken ribs. Most interesting, though, is the remnants of his grace, what Castiel felt before when he touched him.

No angel can entirely remove their grace – it is what makes them not quite right, never quite human. It is the part of the angel that dies with death, that leaves the imprint of the wings. Each angel’s grace is utterly different, unique. Dean’s grace is pure, holy, his human body and human characteristics like a heavy cloth over it, repressing it, like shadowed glass. No wonder he was so hard to find – and no wonder he was hunted by such a powerful angel. Castiel cannot be certain, but whoever Dean is, when he regains the rest of his grace he will be powerful.

“A friend who tortures teenage girls?” the priest presses.

“It was undone,” Castiel says without bothering to look to see the priest’s reaction, and stands. He moves to go to the father’s side, but the priest steps in front of him. “I can heal him, as I did her,” Castiel says to the priest, seeing the worry, as well as the lack of fear.

The priest searches his eyes, as if he can tell the worth of Castiel’s soul just by looking. Castiel knows, of course, that he cannot, but even instinct in a human is a powerful thing, not quite quantified. The priest steps aside.

Dean steps forward. “I don’t trust you,” he almost snarls.

“I’m a friend,” Castiel tells him. “And your father needs my help. Will you deny him that?”

“You don’t get to say –” Dean begins, angry.

“Dean,” the priest softly interjects, looking between them. The quiet call of his name stops Dean in his tracks, and Castiel moves over to John Winchester.

Castiel can see the harm that was inflicted, a ghostly image only he can see in entirety. A severe concussion (most likely what is keeping him unconscious, a result of the powerful angel’s throw), broken ribs, a cracked wrist bone. He would have healed on his own eventually, but it does no harm to heal him, and it might yet provide some degree of trust from Dean. So he presses two fingers against John Winchester’s temple, and lets grace surge throughout his body, healing the damage. Carefully, though, he represses the man’s conscious mind. It takes some effort, John persistently wanting to wake, but Castiel needs time with Dean, time without a possibly paranoid hunter (and father) to poison his thoughts. Judging from Dean’s non-reaction to what the priest said, he does not know the details of what occurred at the Roadhouse.

Dean, when Castiel opens his eyes, is standing by his father, frowning with hidden fear tinged with anger. “His bruises are gone.”

“He will wake in a few hours,” Castiel assures him. “The rest will be good for him.”

“He’ll be okay?” the teenage boy suddenly asks, the first time he’s spoken. He’s staring at his father, a curious mixture of fear and guilt on his face.

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean says. “I think so.” He shifts his gaze to Castiel, emotions hidden in his eyes.

“We need to talk,” Castiel says to Dean.

“Then talk,” Dean says, quick but cautious. He’s watching Castiel, more than suspicion in his eyes.

“Not here,” Castiel says. He reaches out briefly, burning sigils beneath the floor boards, before turning fully to Dean.

Dean may choose to reveal the information Castiel is about to give him, or may not. Castiel would prefer he have that choice, or at least have the choice of how to explain it. Hunters kill all things that are supernatural – they make little distinction between good and bad. If it is not human, then there is nothing wrong with killing it. How far that would extend for John Winchester Castiel doesn’t know, because he just doesn’t know the man well enough for that, but better to be safe than regret it later.

He approaches, and Dean’s eyes widen. “Wait! You’re not just going to jerk me some –“

Castiel puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder, and _moves_.

Dean stumbles back when Castiel lets go of him. “Fuck!” Then he looks around wildly. “Where are we?”

“Elsewhere.” They stand beneath a huge tree, limbs stretching a hundred feet into the sky, nearly that wide across. The branches create stark shadows on the ground beneath, the leaves – this tree never feeling fall, never feeling winter – making lighter, softer shadows. The place glows, faintly, as it should. He wonders if Dean can feel it, see it.

Dean glares at him, makes an aborted movement forward, then stops, reconsidering. “That’s not an answer, you asshole.”

Castiel does not reply. He watches Dean pace back and forth for a minute, then Castiel sits down, back to the trunk. His head falls back and he closes his eyes, waiting for Dean to calm. Something tells him Dean won’t attack him, not yet anyway.

Eventually, he hears Dean give a shaky exhale, then sit down beside him, carefully because of his injuries. When Castiel turns to look, he sees that Dean’s fists are clenched, but he does not attempt to attack Castiel. “You’re a son of a bitch,” Dean says, not looking at him. His voice is fairly even, tension remaining, but he’s listening now. Castiel expected he would. He chose this place for a reason.

Like calls to like.

“I saved your life,” Castiel says.

“What the fuck are you, anyway?” Dean asks, whirling around to face him. “You can teleport and heal or whatever, so you’re obviously not human.”

“I am what you are,” Castiel says, turning his head to look at him fully.

Dean gives him a hard stare, but something flickers in his eyes. “Would you quit with the mysterious crap?” he snaps. “And take me back! You can’t just – drag me wherever you want! I need to be there to – for my brother, and my dad.”

“You are safer here, and so are they.”

Dean gives him a quick glare, but the sharpness of his gaze indicates he’s catching on. Something the angel said to him, perhaps. “Meaning?”

“You’re the target, Dean. You endanger them with your presence.”

“I –“ He looks abruptly conflicted, the anger transformed into something else. “Oh God.” He puts his head in his hands.

Castiel waits. Clearly, there is something here that Castiel does not know, something is affecting Dean’s reactions to him. He’s gotten a surprisingly small amount of resistance – he had expected much more, with a lot more violence. Was it Castiel’s saving them, or is something else causing it?

“She said - when she came, that it was for me … she seemed so familiar.” Dean pauses. “ She said I wasn’t human. So what are you, then?”

Castiel considers for a moment, knowing there are two questions in that, and one answer. “You’re a fallen angel.”

Dean stares at him, blinks, then starts laughing. There’s a touch of hysteria to the sound. “Uh. No. I’m human, not a – not a demon.”

“Demons are not fallen angels, though that is a common misconception,” Castiel says. “Fallen simply means you became human by tearing out your grace, your angelic power.”

“You’re seriously trying to tell me I’m an angel?” Dean almost relaxes, looking honestly amused by this. “And anyway, I hate to break it to you, but I have a dad and I had a mom, I didn’t fly my way to earth.”

“Fallen angels are born to human parents,” Castiel says patiently.

“So you’re trying to tell me my being normal is normal? Dude, seriously?” Dean’s got his arms crossed now, defensive, curling in on himself, switching from one extreme to the other.

“Yes.”

“Convenient.” Dean snorts. “I am most definitely not an angel. You’ve got the wrong guy, _Castiel_ ,” an odd focus on the name.

“Angels are not as humanity has often portrayed, Dean.” Castiel pauses momentarily, deciding on tactics. Whatever happened between Dean and the angel, it had left him open to Castiel’s words. “What did the woman say to you?”

Dean looks away, any remaining amusement fading almost instantly, jaw clenching then unclenching. “She said I was a fool for falling, and I said, falling where? And then she started torturing me and Dad with her freaky powers.”

“Not your brother?”

Dean’s face twists up briefly. “No, though I think the bitch was heading there.”

“So she didn’t tell you why she wanted you dead?”

“No,” Dean says shortly. “Why would she want me dead? I mean, who cares if I’m human? If I am what you say,” he adds, meeting Castiel’s gaze momentarily then looking away.

Castiel sighs. “Give me your hand.”

“Dude, I’m not holding hands with you.” He holds both hands up and away as if to demonstrate.

“Dean,” Castiel says, holding out his hand, palm up.

After one very long second, Dean gives it to him. Unlike Castiel’s hand – which is without calluses – Dean hands are rough, a life of hunting evident in the lines of his skin. Castiel extends his grace the smallest amount, letting the trace he’d taken within himself echo with the trace in Dean.

He hears Dean inhale loudly and suddenly. “What the fuck?” But he doesn’t let go.

“You feel that?”

“Power,” Dean says.

“Your grace,” Castiel corrects. He lets his own spread slightly, Dean’s bruises fading.

“I thought that was gone,” Dean is quick to say.

“Most of it is,” Castiel replies, letting go. “But you can never be rid of it entirely. Not unless you’re dead.”

Dean turns away and puts his hand over his chest, as if there is pain there. Or something else. “There’s got to be a way to get rid of it.”

“I see,” Castiel says. “In truth, I did not think I would convince you of your nature already. Have you started to remember what you once were?”

“No,” Dean says shortly. “Look, I don’t –“

Castiel leans in closer, not quite believing him. “You rebelled, Dean. Fallen angels are abominations in the eyes of heaven.”

“Angel,” Dean says stupidly, looking over at Castiel with new eyes. Then, “ _Heaven_ is after me? Wait! You’re on the side of what – of evil?”

“No,” Castiel says impatiently. “It’s not that simple - ”

Dean cuts him off, rushing to his feet, putting distance between the two of them. “Dude, you just told me you’re like Lucifer’s pal or something!”

“Hardly,” Castiel says coldly, tensely raising his head from where it lay against the tree. “God is not in heaven, Dean. And I will not be the slave of Michael in His stead.”

“What?”

Castiel stands, shrugging, then forcibly stops from pacing. The stillness is strained, and it is difficult to let the tension go. “We don’t know where He is, just that orders in heaven come from Michael now. And Michael began to change things, start pushing things along. Our orders no longer made sense. And then – we found out.”

Dean stares at him. “So God is gone? Just _gone_?”

Castiel nods.

“You’re – dude, I’m not even religious, but that shit is fucked up. If you're not lying.” Dean shakes his head.

“You know what I’m telling you is true, Dean.”

“What are we, in Star Wars?”

Castiel doesn’t know the reference, so he ignores it. “You can remember. I can help you remember who you truly are. Who you have always been. It will make things … clear for you.”

Dean looks repulsed. “ _No_.”

“Don’t you want to know all of who you are? If you truly believe your feelings will not change, it does no harm to remember,” Castiel points out.

“Yeah? What if you implant memories? I –“ he stops. He rubs his face, very quickly runs a hand through his hair, then sits by the tree. He’s silent for several long minutes, staring blankly at nothing. Castiel waits, patient.

“I guess I’ve heard weirder,” Dean mutters at last. Then he snorts. “No, I haven’t.”

It does not seem like Dean wants a response, so Castiel gives none. He has some time. The Enochian sigils he’d placed underneath the floor boards of the priest’s home will merit the place some safety, for a while. He doesn’t doubt that Michael’s soldiers can eventually figure out where Castiel took the family, but by then Dean should be gone, and they will lose interest. Never has a fallen angel returned to their family – they know the cost, and know the leaving must be without exception, never broken. To break it once would be to doom every family of a fallen one.

Dean will learn this. Perhaps he already is.

Castiel can see it, more clearly than he could if Dean still had his grace – the shattered illusions of the world, the weight of that knowledge that can never be unknown again. He has seen this before, has seen how fallen ones change with the truth; he has seen how they know, knowledge beyond memories. It is often the only thing that lets them go forward, lets them trust, and with a touch of an angel’s hand, remember.

Dean’s eyes are dark when he looks at Castiel. “Where are we, anyway?” he finally asks, shoulders slumped.

“This is where another angel fell,” Castiel says. “Her grace landed here, while she was born elsewhere.”

“The tree still has leaves,” Dean remarks.

“The very faintest trace of her grace remains. It is enough.”

More silence.

“I don’t want this,” Dean says.

“It doesn’t matter what you want. You fell. There is no going back. You are their enemy, and they are yours, until one side is dead. Only then will it be over.”

“I – I want.” Dean stops. “I want to talk to my dad.”

Castiel considers the request. And it is a request. Dean is waiting, not demanding, perhaps asking for tacit approval. He is waiting, Castiel realizes, for Castiel to say he will protect him long enough. Long enough to say goodbye, hopefully. “Not for long,” Castiel says. “Your presence – “

“Will put them in danger, I know,” Dean says. “Take me back.”

Castiel purses his lips, then stands. He walks over to Dean, who is standing there warily, a lost look in his eyes. There is some belief there, evident from the sadness, the confusion. He would not feel those things if he did not halfway believe what Castiel is telling him. “You have another family,” Castiel says softly.

“I have a family,” Dean replies, a cold edge entering his tone. “Let’s go.”

“A family you will destroy with your presence.”

Dean looks down, swallows. “Bring me back.”

Castiel hesitates. He would prefer to talk things over more, but pushing Dean might give him nothing, ultimately. He will take Dean against his will if he has to, but he would prefer not to.

“Time is limited,” Castiel warns Dean, and then Castiel takes him back.

He brings them to where they left, the bedroom in the priest’s house. Castiel sees John Winchester jump up, pull out a gun, and begin firing.

The bullets feel rather like pinpricks, sensation without much pain. It doesn’t make Castiel falter or give one inch. Instead, he just moves forward, sees John run out of bullets and go for a knife and stab it, violently, into Castiel’s chest. Castiel plucks the gun from him, throws it on the bed, then turns his attention to the knife.

He looks down, pulls out the blade by the handle, then drops it to the floor. “That is both pointless and unnecessary.”

“Dad, it’s all right,” Dean says, blinking and eyeing Castiel warily, then turning to his father.

“Dean, behind me. Now,” John snarls, never taking his gaze away from Castiel. John picks up the blade, his anger not giving, not fading; there’s no fear in his eyes, only determination. Then, “Dean!” John snaps.

Dean visibly hesitates, and looks at Castiel – for reassurance, or something like it. Castiel returns the look calmly, but says nothing. This is for Dean to deal with. Dean moves a few steps over, closer to his father but not quite behind him.

The priest rushes into the room, gun in hand. “John –“ he says. Castiel can tell, even from this distance, that the gun has consecrated bullets. Interesting, but equally ineffective at harming an angel. John raises one hand, and the priest stops.

“What are you?” John says, not easing his stance at all.

“I am an angel,” Castiel replies.

John opens his mouth to speak, but Dean gets there first. “I believe him, Dad.”

“Dean, go to Sam,” is John’s answer, curt.

“No, I – no, Dad. You need to listen,” and Dean’s voice comes out weirdly high, full of stress and fear. He’s not accustomed to speaking against his father’s wishes, Castiel recognizes. “He’s -“ Then he stops, like he can’t continue. He raises both hands to his face, overwhelmed. Castiel watches, concerned, but unsure of how to give human comfort.

“Dean needs to come with me,” Castiel finally interjects. “He is not safe here, and neither are you or your other son while Dean remains.”

Dean blinks, looking briefly and honestly surprised. “Castiel …” Dean says slowly, sounding disturbed.

Castiel almost walks forward, remembers John’s stance and decides John already thinks he’s enough of a threat at this distance.

“Am I the reason my mom was murdered?” Dean asks, gaze flicking over to his father.

“What?” John asks, splitting his focus for a second to give Dean a commanding and questioning look.

“Your mother was murdered by something supernatural?” Castiel asks.

“Yes,” Dean whispers.

“What are you talking about?” John demands, shifting his grip on the knife, as if to throw it. Castiel has a feeling most of John’s questions are demands.

“Then yes, it is possible. That or your brother – normally angels are born to barren mothers, and thus are only children.” The words come out before Castiel thinks to consider their effect, and he looks away from John to see the horror on Dean’s face.

“But Sam –“ Dean shakes his head, meets Castiel’s eyes.

Castiel can’t really stop now, not and maintain any trust with Dean later. “Your time in your mother may have altered her,” Castiel says honestly, “though I have never heard of it happening before.”

“Dean,” John says, voice low and dangerous. He’s actually focused on Dean now, worry and concern and love flashing across his face, edged always with a sense of threat, not directed at Dean. “What is he talking about?”

Dean’s mouth moves as if to speak, but no sound comes out. He doesn’t look up, like he can’t meet his father’s eyes; there’s shame there, useless shame, wrong shame, Castiel knows. “I’m not human, Dad. I’m like – like him.”

John stares at him for a second, then turns to Castiel. “What lies have you told my son?”

“None. I have only told him the truth.” Castiel tilts his head. “Did not the woman make mention of it?”

“Yes,” Dean answers. “She did, Dad, you heard it just like I did,” and faces his father. Castiel can see Dean steel himself in the line of Dean’s back, that Dean is bracing himself for this and hating every second. Castiel can see the link between them, father and son, powerful. It always is, between family.

“Castiel,” Dean says without looking, “can you leave so my dad and I can talk?”

“Yes, of course. I will leave you be.” He keeps his tone deliberately mild, almost submissive. He understands that John will be focused on Castiel until he leaves.

Dean and John stare at each other for a long moment, something heavy between them, John looking almost surprised that Dean speaks back to him. There’s something else in John’s expression, a sense of something about to happen – John is beginning to believe, Castiel thinks, at least that something beyond his current knowledge is going on.

Barely a moment passes, and the priest, watching the whole scene with a frown, says to Castiel, “This way,” and leaves the room, tucking his gun in his belt.

Castiel follows, somewhat reluctantly, down a hallway. He hears voices behind him, though they fade. Castiel decides not to listen in, grant Dean, at least, some privacy; he'd detected no real fear of John in Dean, so it's doubtful he's a threat to Dean's safety. They enter a living area, wood floors and a battered couch with mismatched chairs. Everything is clean, though, well taken care of, but worn by the years. The priest lowers himself to one of the chairs, a cue that Castiel recognizes, to sit down as well.

He doesn’t, though. Instead he wanders. There are framed pictures almost everywhere, most of people Castiel doesn’t recognize, though he knows some must be from whatever church the priest looks over. Others seem more personal, have Dean or Sam in them, though rarely the father. Castiel can see the aura of this place, and it is welcoming, peaceful – but with an edge. The priest was highly familiar with the gun he was holding, and he only holstered it, did not let it go. Most likely the priest is a hunter as well. This is a public place, however, and Castiel sees no other visible sign of that.

“I heard you,” the priest says finally. “You called yourself an angel.”

Castiel gazes at him, seeing more than a human ever could. He sees the faith, unshaken. This one has lived a long life, hair touched by gray, but Castiel sees the wear, sees the years that have lain heavy. “What is your name?”

“James Murphy,” he says. “Most call me Pastor Jim.”

“Pastor Jim,” Castiel repeats. “Yes. I am one, and Dean is a fallen angel. I have come to … take him home.”

“Are you indeed?” Pastor Jim says, raising an eyebrow. Castiel can see the skepticism, the disbelief, but the man continues, as if he has none. “See, I am sending an angel ahead of you to guard you along the way and to bring you to the place I have prepared. Exodus –“

“Exodus 23:20,” Castiel finishes.

“You know your Bible,” Pastor Jim says.

“I’m familiar with your version, yes,” Castiel says.

“You call yourself an angel, but how are we to believe you truly are one?” Pastor Jim asks.

“Your belief is irrelevant. Only Dean’s matters.”

“You will not take that young man,” Pastor Jim warns. “If you are an angel, why are you trying to separate him from his family?”

“There is disagreement in heaven, and the attack on Dean and his human family is a result of that,” Castiel says. “And unfortunately to bring him home to his first family, he must leave his second.”

“And where are you taking Dean? What way have you prepared?” Pastor Jim asks, referring to the Bible verse he had quoted. “I can see that you're anxious to leave this place. You already took Dean once.” And not again, Castiel hears, but he knows the priest has no control over that. Indeed, even Dean doesn’t, entirely.

“He will be with his brothers and sisters,” Castiel replies serenely.

“And who are they? You say Dean has fallen – does that mean he is the enemy of heaven?”

“We all are,” Castiel says shortly. “But that does not mean we are evil.”

Pastor Jim, Castiel can tell, doesn’t believe him. “And what does God think?”

“I am – not the best person to ask theological questions.” Castiel looks away.

“Seems to me like you would be the perfect person for that, if you are who you say,” Pastor Jim replies.

“You have more faith than I,” Castiel says. “Lean on that – it will do you more good than anything I could possibly say.”

Pastor Jim switches tactics. “What is Dean telling John?”

“Dean cannot stay here. He puts his family in danger.”

“Why?”

“Dean rebelled when he fell, and the consequence for that is death. The angels will kill anyone who might possibly lead them to Dean, and that includes his family.”

“So you have gone against God?”

“No, I have gone against Michael,” Castiel says, distracted. He can hear voices now, both angry and pleading. Dean is saying goodbye, which is good. They do not have much time. He feels it ticking, uncertain of when the time will come, but knowing it will, because it must, because it always has.

“What –“

Castiel abruptly rises to his feet. Dean comes through the doorway, followed closely by John.

“Dean!” John yells.

“I have to go,” Dean says without looking, “for Sammy.” He steps in front of Castiel. “Now.”

And then they are both gone.

\-----------------------------

When Dean just stands there, blankly, Castiel takes him by the arm and leads him to the bed, sitting him there. Then he sits beside Dean, cleans and re-forms his bloody sweater, and waits.

They are in Castiel’s safehouse, the light inside run by a generator. Most safehouses are certainly compromised, of course, but Castiel made this one by himself, and never told another its location, not even Anna. That is not unusual, however, as most of them do have personal safehouses like this. Castiel’s is in the middle of nowhere, in a mountain not reachable by any other means, and is one large room (plus the bathroom) with wood floors, walls covered with maps, a small kitchen and a large bed, all years old. The latter two items are not for Castiel, but because he knew when he built it that he thought it possible he would bring a fallen angel here, or maybe even a human. The future could be unpredictable, and Castiel likes to plan.

“I can’t believe what I’ve done,” Dean says dully, staring ahead.

“You did what was necessary,” Castiel tells him, softly. “What was right.”

Dean looks at him sharply. “So what exactly are you saying? That I should just leave my family? Sam? Forever?”

“And join mine,” Castiel says. “Which is also yours. You can recover your grace, and be among us. Dean, you fell – this is what you always intended. You would not have fallen for another reason.”

“I can’t imagine …” he trails off, looks away. “I’ve left Sam,” he whispers.

The younger brother, Castiel guesses.

“What if I just wanted to be human? And be left alone?”

The comment makes Castiel think back. “Angels fell before to become human, yes. But now, with so many falling, it is a matter of rebellion and not simply escape. Once, they might have been content to ignore you, for your life to end and your soul to go wherever the souls of fallen angels go, but not anymore. It is too widespread.”

“Great,” Dean mutters. He closes his eyes, breathing slightly faster than normal.

Castiel dithers for a long moment, wondering how to make this easier on Dean. Dean knowing his own mind would help best, he decides. “Do you want to remember now?”

“How does that work, exactly?”

“Lay down,” Castiel says. At Dean’s skeptical looks, he adds, “You might pass out.”

“Sounds wonderful,” Dean says brightly.

Castiel blinks, but says, “It will be quick, I promise.” He rises to his feet.

“Wait, wait. Can’t we talk first? I mean, what am I getting myself into?”

“Talking will be unnecessary when you remember.”

Dean looks him over, then lies down on his back, every muscle in his body tense. He closes his eyes, though Castiel didn’t ask him to do so.

Castiel puts two fingers to his temple, and _pushes_.

And hits a wall.

Castiel frowns, and tries again. Nothing.

Dean opens one eye. “Well?”

“You are blocked,” Castiel says, puzzled, withdrawing his hand. “You are greatly resisting remembrance.”

Dean rises to his elbows. “Seriously? You’re an angel, you can’t push through?”

“I might be able to, but I don’t think it would be wise. It could cause your mind harm.”

“How do I know this isn’t bullshit, then? The entire thing?” Dean swings his legs around and sits up. He glares at Castiel. “Well?”

“You know that you are hunted, and you know that I saved you. You know what you felt. That cannot be denied.”

“What was that, exactly?” Dean asks.

“What?” Castiel tilts his head.

“The first time you touched me,” Dean explains.

“I’m not sure,” Castiel admits. “I suppose it would suggest a connection between us, though I don’t know how.” It was a strange sensation, that pulse of power, different than when Castiel let Dean touch the shadow of grace Castiel had collected from the hunt.

“Or you arranged it or something.”

“I did not.” A flat denial is best, when confronted by continued disbelief.

“This is all bullshit,” Dean mutters. There’s a tense moment when Castiel almost thinks he will have to start again, from the beginning, in convincing Dean. Dean looks up, past the ceiling, then he heaves a heavy, strange sigh. “Well, that’s a letdown. Thought I’d remember being all powerful and multidimensional and shit.”

Multidimensional – an interesting word for Dean to use. Castiel gets to his feet, then goes to look at the map of the United States hanging on one of the walls. “That is hardly the most important point,” Castiel says.

“What is, then?” Glancing back for a second, Castiel sees something lost in Dean’s eyes, but the look is quickly shuttered. “How am I supposed to even believe all of this?”

“I am not lying, I promise you.”

“That’s hardly reassuring,” Dean snaps.

Castiel turns to face Dean completely. “Are you all right?”

Dean seems wary at the words. “I don’t believe you - this.”

“Yes, you do,” Castiel contradicts calmly. He’s fought Castiel comparatively little, considering Dean is a hunter.

It’s clear Dean doesn’t believe him, but all he says is, “So what’s step two, then?”

A plan. “We need to find your grace,” Castiel says, focusing on the maps.

He hears Dean moving behind him, quiet footsteps. “And what will that do?”

“If nothing else, help you regain your memory,” Castiel says. “But without you remembering where you fell, the only place we can look is where you were born.” Castiel turns around, and begins pacing. “And that assumes it was not taken.”

“Taken? Taken by …?” Dean’s eyes search the room restlessly, and Castiel realizes he’s still feeling overwhelmed.

“Michael’s soldiers,” Castiel says, deciding this will be good in two ways – to help Dean remember, and to distract him. “It’s not often they find the grace of a fallen angel, but it does happen.”

“And what, exactly, happens to those that never get it back?”

“They stay human, and die that way.”

“Die?” Wariness there, lack of trust. Something Castiel will have to remedy.

“Not like that, Dean. We protect them, place them in other states, other countries, give them new identities. That’s the safest way, though one or two chose to stay with us, in … what you would call support positions.”

“Regular little army, is it?”

“It has to be,” Castiel says, distracted. “Where were you born?”

“Lawrence, Kansas.”

Castiel nods. “That’s where we go, then.” He starts to reach out –

Dean dances back. There’s something in his gaze, something that tells Castiel he has a challenge ahead. “Hey, wait. I’m sure you don’t remember from when you fell –“

“I never fell,” Castiel murmurs, but Dean keeps going.

“But humans need to eat,” Dean finishes, with energy. Slightly manic.

“Where would you like to go?” Castiel asks immediately.

Dean isn’t expecting this answer. Whether he thought Castiel would argue or not, clearly this was some sort of test. Castiel wonders if he’s passed.

Dean seems to regain his footing after a few seconds. He considers Castiel’s words, then raises a hand and twirls his finger to indicate Castiel. “Can you do that pop-in thing to anywhere?”

\-----------------------------

It’s a hole in the wall kind of place in southern California. The dining area looks more like a cheap break room than a diner, with long folding tables and generic chairs Castiel sees everywhere and a cracked, tile floor, but Dean walked in without a qualm and ordered a huge pizza, with at least six toppings.

Dean stuffs it into his mouth inelegantly, while Castiel watches. “You sure you don’t want any?”

“I don’t need to eat.”

“Don’t need to doesn’t mean can’t.”

Castiel says nothing.

“I’m telling you, it’s delicious.” Dean waggles his eyebrows.

Castiel marvels at how quickly Dean has bounced back – or maybe it’s all tricks and shadows, but the enjoyment of the food seems to be real – and then, with no small measure of uncertainty, takes a slice. It’s a small giving over of control, but it makes Dean relax.

He takes a bite. It’s greasy, chewy, yet … strangely good.

“Ah, there it is,” Dean says.

“What?” Castiel says through the mouthful of pizza.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.” Dean takes another large bite, then proceeds to do exactly what he told Castiel not to, so the words come out a little garbled. “A little … humanness.”

Castiel tilts his head.

“You just seem a bit of a stick in the mud, standing up straight and all – mission focused.” He waves the pizza, since his hands are full.

Castiel thinks, trying to go through all the idioms he knows. “I do not believe I am stiff.” And Dean hardly knows him well enough to make the distinction, regardless.

“Dude, you guys disliked heaven so much you became human. Part of being human is fun. And family.”  
Dean puts the pizza down, looking somewhere in his head, then shakes his head and refocuses his attention on Castiel.

“You’re not alone, Dean. You have me.”

Dean eyes him, part skepticism and part surprise. “Not going to plop me off somewhere with a new name?”

“Not if you don’t want to,” Castiel assures him, seeing something there, something he should address. “Dean, I would not abandon you.”

“Right,” Dean says warily after a second, then resumes eating.

They sit in silence, and Castiel lets his gaze wander. There are other people here, all eating pizzas (though Castiel did see salads on the menu). They are varied, and yet all the same, preoccupied by normal concerns that normal humans have. Dean hadn’t relaxed in the safehouse, but he does here. This is what he recognizes. Castiel has never had a fallen one not remember the way Dean has, and so has never had to deal with this problem. He will have to be careful, aware of Dean’s reactions, tilted more human than angelic. More ignorance than knowledge.

“What about postcards?” Dean says out of the blue.

“No,” Castiel replies.

“Emails? Text messages?”

“No, it would not be wise. They have never really caught onto phones or the internet –“

“Like geezers?” Dean interrupts, eyes dark and amused.

“But it doesn’t mean they won’t,” Castiel concludes. “It’s not safe. For either of you.”

“Suddenly I don’t have an appetite,” Dean mutters.

Castiel’s hands twitch helplessly, as he watches Dean’s mood fall again. “I am sorry.”

Dean shoots him a quick smile. “Not your fault. At least, I don’t think it is.” There’s a hidden anger, there, but it disappears as quickly as it once appeared. He stops. “Cas – can I call you Cas? Castiel’s a mouthful.”

“If you like,” Castiel says easily.

“What if we don’t find my grace, Cas?” His eyes are sharp, purposeful. He’s found a topic, a nice, good distracting topic. “You don’t think we will, do you?”

“There’s too wide an area to cover,” Castiel admits. “Maybe if you were born in a small town, but even then, an angel’s grace doesn’t always fall close to where they are ultimately born. But it is worth trying.”

“What then? Do I just – hang on to you? Meet the others? There are others, right?”

Castiel tilts his head in acknowledgement. “Yes. All who fall come into the network eventually.”

“Where are they? Do they wander around like you do?”

“We meet,” Castiel says. “Not often. Our cells are kept separate for safety reasons. Members of a cell only know the others in a cell. It makes it harder for Michael’s soldiers to track us all down if one of us is caught.”

“So when do I meet them?”

Castiel takes a bite of the pizza to avoid answering. Should he tell Dean? He spent a long time convincing Dean that he would be safer with Castiel than without. Telling him their current status would only serve to break that. “Let’s try to find your grace first,” he decides.

“And how will you do that? Lawrence is kind of large to just wander around.”

“Reports of meteors,” Castiel says. “Records are kept, and they can indicate where an angel’s grace fell. At least a general area – they make predictions about where they might have fallen so they can retrieve pieces of the meteor later. Doesn’t always work, because those kinds of records are imperfect – especially in cities, where they aren’t easily seen – but there’s a chance. We’ll start with that.”

“So, what, library?”

“Yes,” Castiel says. “They keep online records these days. Libraries usually have computers.” He takes another bite of the pizza, the bread crispy and doughy at the same time, the strong taste of tomato and cheese.

Dean sighs. “Why do I always end up in libraries?”

It seems like a rhetorical question, so Castiel doesn’t answer. He finishes off his slice of pizza, purposefully ignoring Dean’s persistent attention.

Dean continues to eat, but also continues to stare.

“What is it?” Castiel asks finally.

“Is there … at least some way for me to know if they’re okay? Sam and my dad?”

“It is possible that someone else, someone you trust absolutely,” Castiel says carefully, “can stop in from time to time. But never you, and they can never see you. Humans let things slip, Dean, however much they don’t intend to.” And angels hear prayers, at least those directed at them, and there are many in Michael's fold.

“But I can know,” Dean persists. “Sammy …”

“I know your family lives a different life than most, that being a hunter is a dangerous profession. It’s also one that makes them hard to track, for us as well as for Michael’s soldiers. I can’t promise that to you, Dean. I can only tell you what you can do keep them safe.”

Sadness and defeat flashes across Dean’s face. “I understand.” He doesn’t keep eating, just stares off at nothing. “I never even said goodbye to Sammy.”

“Your younger brother, yes?”

Dean nods listlessly.

“You lived an entire life with him, Dean. He won’t forget you.”

“How the fuck would you know?” Dean abruptly snarls. “You didn’t fall, isn’t that right?”

Castiel’s gaze slides away, to the past. “No. But I remember when I recruited Anael. I met her family, and it was different back then, Michael’s soldiers not quite on the hunt yet. It was so hard for her … Her parents died, you know, never seeing her again. But in their house, they kept whole photo albums of her entire life. They even wrote her letters, that we found later.”

He feels Dean’s attention on him, on his words.

“Her family isn’t the only one. We try to tell them, before the fallen angel goes with us, even if they don’t understand or don’t believe. And we see the marks they leave behind, when the decades pass, and the families pass. I know your goodbye was quick, but they know you didn’t leave because you wanted to, and they know you love them. I promise you, Dean, that they do. That much I have seen, that much I have learned from humanity – how to love my family, to put them first.” His voice fades, and his throat is unexpectedly dry as he swallows.

Dean stares at the table. “Thank you,” he whispers. “For trying, anyway.”

Castiel doesn’t know what to say, what more he can offer. “We learned to depend on each other when God left us,” he says. “My brothers and sisters. You can do the same.”

Dean doesn’t answer, frowning at his empty plate.

“Are you done eating?” Castiel asks.

Dean looks up, nods.

“Then let’s go.” He stands and holds out his hand.

“Holding hands is girly, you know,” Dean says, even as he takes it. The touch is warm, unexpectedly pleasant. Castiel doesn’t touch people often.

“This is most efficient form of contact, regardless of the gender you associate with it.”

Dean’s mouth quirks into the smallest of smiles, and then they’re gone, leaving a rush of air behind.

\-----------------------------

Castiel watches Dean at the computer of the corner of his eye. The abrupt mood swings are still happening, even after hours of research – which judging from the dislike in Dean’s tone, Castiel had expected to be annoying and therefore tiring – but Dean has yet to give up or give in.

There were no reports of falling meteors in the ten months before Dean’s birth, so they’d moved on to more abstract concepts. Places said to be blessed, trees that never lose their leaves.

Castiel has yet to dart through the city searching for the trace Dean’s grace had left. He doesn’t want to leave Dean for that long, even if were that effective of a technique. Both the fact that a powerful angel has been sent to kill Dean and the yet-to-be-found mole make Castiel wary of leaving Dean even for that short time. It is just too dangerous. Not knowing how Justine was found makes him wonder if Michael’s soldiers really are beginning to use human technology, in which case they can look up Dean’s place of birth, and guess where Castiel might go. They might not expect Dean to be unable to access his memories, but they do know that his grace is somewhere, and birth places are the first places the network looks.

“Cas?” Dean looks up the from the computer. “I think I’ve found something.”

“What is it?”

“Well, it’s either grace or a hunt,” Dean says wryly. “Look.”

A lake that’s more of a pond, with reports that those who go there find peace from mental disorders, as well as reports of some people seeing lights. To heal mental illness is an odd blessing, but not impossible, and the light is probably seen by those psychically sensitive to the grace. Humans tend to view things from one side. It’s not really in Lawrence, outside of the city proper.

“Sound like it could be it?”

“Worth a look,” Castiel agrees. “Ready to go?” he asks, knowing already that Dean doesn’t like being jolted somewhere without warning.

“Yeah, let’s do it.” He braces himself, which is entirely unnecessary, and Castiel spreads his wings and flies.

It’s off a dirt road, miles of flat land around it, the grass near the pond very green, the water clear. Castiel steps closer. Dean follows, looking around curiously, but making no indication of feeling anything.

“It’s not here,” Castiel says.

“Dammit,” is Dean’s reply, wearied and exasperated at the same time.

“No,” Castiel says, eyes narrowed. “It was here, but not anymore. Someone took it.”

“Oh. That’s really bad, isn’t it?”

“It wasn’t one of us,” Castiel says heavily.

“You take angels’ grace?”

“When we know someone will fall, yes,” Castiel, distracted. This is not good. He’d tried not to hope, and that was apparently wise. He didn’t know where to go from here, except to drop off Dean somewhere. But Dean doesn’t remember, and Castiel has a feeling that he will have no desire to sit this out with a new name, not given Dean’s resistance to even the idea. “They sometimes are able to warn us, so we can safeguard it. We leave a marker behind, if one of us was the one who did so, and there’s no sign of that here, so it must have been one of Michael’s.”

“So it’s just lost?”

“For the moment, yes,” Castiel admits.

Dean is silent, then, “If it’s gone, why is this place ‘blessed’?”

“Your grace left a strong mark,” Castiel says. “You’re powerful, whoever you are.” Maybe as much as Anna.

“Was powerful,” Dean amends, sighing. He sinks down, sitting on the grass, head falling to one hand and rubbing his face before he looks up at Castiel. “So what now?”

“We go back to the safehouse.” Castiel eyes Dean. “You need to sleep.”

“It’s the middle of the afternoon.”

“Did you sleep last night?”

“No.” Another sigh.

“Then you need sleep,” Castiel says. He crouches down, then puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder; comfort and contact. He flies them both back, grateful that at least they hadn’t run into any angels.

Dean looks slightly off put by the abrupt switch in surroundings, but gets up without speaking and goes to the small bathroom, shutting the door.

Castiel goes to the kitchen cabinets and starts looking through them for what he has here. Mostly canned things. The refrigerator is still working, but most of the food in it has spoiled. Castiel has a hard time keeping track of things that seem so small, but are so important to human life, so he’s not terribly surprised by this. The safehouse is, well, as safe as it gets. He can leave Dean tonight or tomorrow morning and find more food. It looks like he and Dean will be sticking together for a while.

He hears the shower start as he grabs a couple of pens and begins copying the data he’d seen on Anael’s map about the recent movements of Michael’s soldiers to his own maps. There might be something there, more than a search for a fallen angel. He could also cross-check this with the assignments given to all the cells, see if there are any matches, anything that coordinates with known movements.

After some amount of time that Castiel lost track of, he hears Dean’s soft footsteps, almost silent because he’s barefoot. “I’ve been meaning to ask. What’s the thing with no windows and no doors?”

“I do not require them, and they are weak spots, places where traps and bindings can be the most easily broken.”

“Huh.” Dean moves next to him, and Castiel realizes suddenly that Dean has no change of clothes – he changed back into what he was wearing before. Something else Castiel will have to consider now. “What is that?”

“The last I saw of soldiers’ movements, most concerning your prior location, as near as I can tell.”

A pause, then, “And you’re keeping track why?”

Castiel glances over, sees nothing but open curiosity on Dean’s face. He debates with himself for a moment, but there’s really no delaying it at this point. “I mentioned before we operate as cells. Well, several cells were murdered recently, in addition to some others that only cell leaders knew about.”

“A spy,” Dean says.

“Yes,” Castiel says, a quiet surge of anger working through him. “Someone who has cost many lives. The cells have scattered while we try to figure out who is responsible.”

“ _That’s_ why you didn’t take me to meet anyone – you couldn’t.” There’s an edge to Dean’s voice. “I thought you said I was safer with you? That my family is safer?"

“You are, just not to the degree you or I would prefer,” Castiel says firmly. “And your family’s situation has not changed. You are defenseless, Dean. I am not.”

Dean’s mouth makes the movement of a smile, but there’s no humor behind it, so it looks more like a odd grimace. “So what does that have to do with me?”

“Look,” Castiel says, and points to the sightings. “All of these along highways. The other unknown merited maybe three or four. You? We saw at least a dozen. And that’s only the ones that we caught – there’s many more soldiers we would have missed. Someone is searching for you very diligently at the same time a mole is finally acting?”

“Not a coincidence, is what you’re saying. But what’s so special about me?”

“I don’t know.” Castiel frowns and folds his arms.

Dean looks at the map for a moment longer, then says, “So the mole only recently started acting on information?”

Castiel nods.

“You’ve had him for a while,” and it’s not quite a question.

“That is the logical assumption.”

Castiel sees Dean moving out of the corner of his eye, and turns. He catches Dean walking along the walls, fingertips trailing on the wood, before he walks to the bed, then sits down. “You could use some chairs in here, you know.”

“Dean.”

“I can’t – I can’t believe all this shit!” Dean suddenly shouts, leaping up. “I’m just some guy, and you’re telling me I’m a fallen angel and now we’ve got cells and it’s like Jason Bourne in here. Including the amnesia!”

“I do not know who Jason Bourne is,” Castiel states, “but you must focus on what you do know.”

“Which is?”

“You are safe here, and this? All this? Is not your responsibility. Not now, anyway.”

Dean exhales roughly. “This is nuts. I mean, angels. It’s _nuts_.”

“You’re not crazy. And neither am I.”

“Then what about the spy? You say I’m safe, but am I, really?”

“No one else knows this place, Dean, only me, and what is going on with the network isn’t something you need to be worrying about.”

“People are dead, it’s apparently related to me somehow, I think that’s kind of my responsibility – something I should know about.”

Persistent, again. “Well, then what would you suggest?” Castiel asks, a touch impatiently. He doesn’t need to be hand-holding someone through this.

Dean’s eyebrow quirks upward, and he says, “Bait.” At Castiel’s lack of comprehension, he continues. “Me, as bait. See if you can, I don’t know, trap them and interrogate them. Can you trap angels?”

“Yes,” Castiel says slowly. “It is possible. But it would be very risky, and I don’t want to put you in that kind of danger. If they are more powerful than I, an attempt to trap any angel that comes would likely result in death. Yours more likely than mine.”

“I understand the desire to protect someone else, I really do. But I’m not a child, Cas.”

Castiel exhales quietly. “Let’s discuss this tomorrow. You are tired, and not clear-minded.”

“Oh, really?” Dean says sarcastically.

“That also gives me time to plan it,” Castiel replies diplomatically.

Dean seems to recognize it, snorting, but he doesn’t object. “Fine.” He throws back the covers so he can get into the bed (Castiel suddenly thinks it’s probably dusty), and then pulls them over himself. He doesn’t take off the jeans, which Castiel thinks is probably due to discomfort over being undressed in front of what is essentially a stranger.

Belatedly, Castiel says, “I will get you toiletries and a change of clothes tomorrow.”

Dean eyes him. “Okay.” He flops onto his back, staring at the ceiling, then turns to look at Castiel. “Are you just going to stand there?”

“I do not require sleep.”

“I can’t sleep with you standing there like that,” Dean insists. “And humans sleep with the lights off.”

With a mental shrug, Castiel flips off the light and sits on the floor, back against the wall.

“I suppose that’s better,” he hears Dean mutter.

The unfortunate thing is that he will not be able to study information while Dean sleeps, since Dean is clearly not comfortable with that. Castiel does not sleep, but some mimicry of the stillness and quiet – the human trait of sleeping – is necessary.

Castiel supposes that the missing hours are not too important. Certainly, not more important than Dean at least sleeping well. What Castiel can do about the mole is limited right now anyway. He won’t see his cell for another few days, and he has no real intention of letting Dean be bait. There’s not enough evidence to support the theory that Dean is related to the mole, and the risks far outweigh the possible benefits, emphasis on the possible. He will convince Dean of that tomorrow.

“Cas?”

“Yes?” Castiel says, jerked out of his thoughts.

“Who are you?”

“I don’t understand,” he says slowly.

“I mean, I don’t remember you. I don’t remember anything,” and Castiel wonders if that is the truth, “but now I have to depend on you for everything and I don’t even know you. It’s freaky.”

Castiel squints at him, sees that Dean is lying with an arm over his eyes. The darkness is complete in here, so Castiel is a bit puzzled. “What would you like to know?”

“Favorite color? No, wait. Blue.”

Castiel smiles in the darkness. “I like blue,” he says. “But someone else, an angel I know, she picked out my clothes.”

Dean laughs quietly. “Figures you’d need a girl for that.”

Castiel doesn’t know how to reply to that, so he lets the moment expand. Dean is attempting to achieve understanding – no. Attempting to connect, because his other connections now exist with a limitless distance. “What would you like to know?” he says again.

“I dunno. Just start somewhere.”

Castiel thinks about that. Dean, without recovering his memory, lacks background information – lacks the necessary knowledge to even begin to know who Castiel is. “In the beginning –“

“No, really?” Sarcasm drips from every word.

“In the beginning,” Castiel repeats, heavier, “it was simple. I have never seen the face of God, Dean. But we knew He was there, and we all existed in harmony. There were differences, of course, but they were slight. I suppose you could say we were like children, unmolded.”

“Dude, you really are starting at the beginning!”

Castiel can’t smile. “When Lucifer rebelled, it split us. We had never before experienced anything like that – didn’t even know it was possible. I think it was then that we learned how to hold things back. How to hide, if not quite deceive. Over time, some begin to doubt things. As we waited for orders and received none, some began to act on their own.

“I was not one of them. I was loyal, dependable to a fault, you might say. It never occurred to me to rebel, Dean. It was – forced on me. I do not like this division, that heaven has been divided. But I see no other way, because Michael is not God, however much heaven wishes he is.”

“Loyal to a fault,” Dean murmurs. “I get that. Sammy says – well, that doesn’t matter.”

“I am still loyal,” Castiel adds. “In my own way, to my brothers and sisters who know freedom. Not freedom of body, but freedom of mind. The possibility, the ability to think for yourself, and choose. I can’t help but think that this is what God intended. For us to … grow up. To chose right while having a choice is a great deed.”

“But what about you? Why did you choose to do this?” _Why did I choose to do this?_ Castiel can almost hear him ask, equal to the question spoken. Dean speaks as much as what he does not say as much as he does. Or maybe that is something Castiel chooses to see.

Neither are questions Castiel is quite prepared to answer. “I don’t know why you did, Dean. I can’t speak to what exactly was in your mind, only that it was purposeful, and you did intend to join us eventually. And why I did … doesn’t really matter. The reality we have is important, not how we got here.”

A bit of silence. “I don’t agree. The past comes back to bite you, you know.”

“Perhaps.”

He hears Dean sigh. “You talk a lot about your whole movement, but you still haven’t said anything about you, Cas.”

“I don’t know what to say.” He folds his hands in his lap, keeps them purposefully still. “I –“ Then he stops, thinking better of it.

“What?”

“I am trying to think of what you want to hear, so you will feel better. It is not my intent to cause you any discomfort.”

The darkness is nearly complete, and only Castiel’s grace-enhanced vision can see Dean take his arm off his eyes to look vaguely in Castiel’s direction. He can’t quite tell what the expression on Dean’s face is, though. “Um, I don’t want to be babied, Cas. The truth is fine. What exactly is so bad about the truth?”

“I’m not lying, Dean. But I do not necessarily tell the whole of the thing. I don’t speak it often, not where my personal past is concerned,” Castiel says reluctantly. He heaves a silent breath, a habit he’s picked up. “I don’t like to think about it,” he finally admits.

“Okay,” Dean says, calmly accepting in a way Castiel hadn’t anticipated. “I can respect that. For the time being.”

“Thank you.”

Eventually, he hears Dean’s breathing even out.

Castiel matches his breathing to Dean’s, and waits in the dark.

\-----------------------------

He is in the same position when Dean wakes in the morning.

He hasn’t been there the entire night. He left, for about an hour, when Dean was in the middle of his deepest sleep cycle. It had set him on edge to leave for even that long, and while he was gone, he began to wonder how and why he’s already gotten so attached. Oh, Castiel loves his entire family. He has done no less for others than what he has for Dean. He even loves, sadly, the ones he has had to kill to protect the others. But there is something so intrinsically familiar about Dean, and something that tells him he is important. Maybe important to Castiel, maybe just important – Castiel can’t tell yet.

That, too, sets Castiel on edge. He feels like there is something he is missing, not seeing.

He turns on the light partway when dawn rises. He can’t see it, of course; no windows. But circadian rhythms are necessary to normal human life.

Castiel notices Dean twisting in bed first, breaking the stillness of the past few hours, then his eyes blearily open. There’s a moment when his face is relaxed and trusting, then his entire body stiffens. There’s a split second of panic, then he bolts upward and looks at Castiel. “Have you been there all night staring at me?”

“No,” Castiel says honestly.

Dean’s eyes narrow. “Huh.” He gets up out of bed, and stumbles to the bathroom.

Castiel gets up, and moves to the kitchen. He takes a moment to think about what he should make. He takes eggs out of the refrigerator, pulls down a pan. “I assume you eat these.”

He hears Dean stop attempting to be quiet. “I see chairs migrated here in the middle of the night. And I take my eggs scrambled. Do you know how to make eggs?”

“How hard can it be?”

Castiel turns his head to see Dean break into full, honest laughter. “That is a loaded question.” He takes the eggs from Castiel, gets a bowl and breaks the eggs into them, before going to get two more eggs. “We don’t eat the shells,” he says conspiratorially.

“I know that,” Castiel says, irritated.

“Just checking.”

Dean proceeds to make the eggs, while Castiel watches him.

“I do this for Sam,” Dean finally offers, looking at Castiel sideways.

“That’s … nice.”

“I don’t know how he and Dad – well, they fight a lot, is all, and without me there …”

“I’m sorry, Dean,” but he says it firmly.

“Yeah, well, fuck you.”

“You would really put them in danger?”

“I just want to go home!” Castiel sees Dean lift the bowl as if to throw it, but he doesn’t. He sets it down carefully instead.

Castiel says nothing.

The eggs finish cooking, and Dean pulls out two plates.

“I don’t require –“

“Don’t argue.”

Castiel takes the plate, and then fishes around the kitchen for forks, handing one to Dean.

They sit at the table, and Dean stares everywhere but at Castiel. Castiel has no problem focusing his attention on the far more interesting thing in the room, however. He eats the eggs, but barely tastes them. He knows he stares more intently and longer than is average or acceptable in American culture, but culture changes these things so frequently, it seems to him, so he ignores those little details. People are interesting when observed for prolonged periods; certain truths can be revealed by never looking away.

“Why are you so fucking weird?” Dean finally snaps, finally meeting Castiel's stare. It is a weird dichotomy, the Dean who can think of nothing but his family, the Dean who knows he is something else; he switches between them with ease, relatively little confusion. Castiel wonders what is really going on in Dean’s head.

“I am not weird,” Castiel finally answers. “I am angelic.”

Dean puts his fork down. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

“It is the truth.”

“A ridiculous truth.” But there’s a bit of humor there.

“I fail to see how that is relevant.”

Dean takes a contemplative bite. “So you never fell?”

“No,” Castiel says. He finishes eating the eggs, then gets up, all without looking at Dean.

He walks over to the wall with the maps, stares at them a second, then takes out the flashdrive in his pocket.

“What’s that?”

“Assignments,” Castiel says, walking over to a cabinet, and taking out a laptop he’s rarely used. “Hopefully I can use them to track down who the mole might be. Who might have had access to the information required to pull off attacking the two specific cells, the others.”

Dean is still eating when Castiel brings the laptop to the table, sits down and turns it on, twirling the flashdrive through his fingers restlessly while the operating system loads.

“So is it weird for you? Technology, I mean?” Dean suddenly asks.

“It took some time to get used to, as this degree of advancement is so recent,” Castiel says, “but it is a useful tool.”

“And you use it, and they don’t?”

“They are arrogant, certain of their superiority. We don’t have the luxury of that kind of attitude. Anything we can use, we will,” Castiel says. “Also, the fallen ones are usually quite familiar with human technology, human culture, and how to best use it to our advantage.”

“But it’s new – I mean, for you.”

Castiel stares at Dean carefully. “What are you asking?”

“How often is it that people like you – in what, the network? – never fall?”

“It’s … rare.”

“Huh.” Castiel expects Dean to pursue it – he’s clearly very curious about Castiel’s past – but instead he gets up, drags the chair behind him, and plops it and himself right next to Castiel, so he can look at the laptop’s screen. “What?” Dean asks, raising an eyebrow at Castiel’s look. “It’s not like _I_ could be the mole. And I don’t exactly have anyone to tell what I see.” When Castiel does not answer, he continues, “Anyway, are you paranoid or what? Two days ago I was a fucking human being, and now I’m a fallen angel. I’ve lived the past twenty-two years as Dean Winchester, not whatever weird name God came up with. How could I possibly be the mole? Or be on what-it’s side?”

“True,” Castiel says, “but you could be tortured for this information.”

“I could be tortured for this information regardless of whether I have it,” Dean points out. “I’m with you, so I might as well help you, right? And lessen my chances of being caught? And tortured?”

“Perhaps,” Castiel admits again. It’s quick trust, but this is an unusual situation. Plus, the file will not contain the current locations of anyone, and the safehouses referenced are already considered compromised. Yes, this is reasonable. He slips in the flashdrive, waits for the icon to pop up, then opens the drive. There’s about a dozen text files on it, unencrypted.

There are eighteen cells, individuals grouped ranging in number of three to seven. Castiel had estimated the number to be around that, but by his own choice he hadn’t given himself access to this information. It was simply safer to keep it farther up the ladder, because even though Castiel knows himself to be no traitor, he can be caught much more easily than Anna or any of the other more powerful angels. This puts the information in more danger.

Not that that matters now. Clearly, someone had gotten to at least part of this information.

“So how does this work?” Dean asks.

“Eighteen cells, each cell has a leader, who can contact Anna, our own cell leader. Lower cell members have no contact information for support or Anna, and some don’t even know her identity.” Castiel pauses. “The format is essentially the same as it used today, for rebel groups or terrorist organizations. It is designed to make counter-intelligence more difficult, in case of infiltration or capture.”

“Nice comparison.”

“It wasn’t a comparison, just … knowledge. Two cells and at least one support have been killed. One cell leader was captured, but committed suicide.”

“Shit,” Dean murmurs.

“Two things are obvious: one, that the mole cannot be a cell leader. Cell leaders know others in the cell – if it was a cell leader, most likely more cells would have been hit, a maximum of six or seven, as the leader cells are also split. It would simply be more efficient to track down the locations of all the cell leaders, instead of doing it piecemeal by taking out only certain cells. Two, the whole point of this is to go up the chain of command.”

“How do you know that?”

“They are trying to capture us,” Castiel says. “Not simply kill. Granted, there are standing orders to capture when possible, but I’m betting those cells were chosen because the cell leaders were known. That, and the timing with you.”

“With me?”

Castiel lets his hands rest on the keyboard for a long moment. “I’ve been thinking about this. What if you have knowledge they want? Or knowledge they don’t want us to have? That would explain why they’re going after you so hard, even though they have your grace. Even though they’re doing another operation at the same time, they devote resources to you.”

“So as a fighter, I’m useless, but something locked in my head might be useful?” Dean sounds skeptical.

Castiel shrugs, more of a loosening of the shoulder muscles than anything else. “Perhaps. It’s a theory. Or I may be seeing connections where there are none, and the attack on the cells and support is random, a sign of impatience.”

“But the quickest way to find out if I’m connected is to get my memory.”

“Not if it harms you.”

“I’m willing –“

“It could damage you beyond your ability to heal. In which case I wouldn’t get any information anyway. The mind is a delicate thing – I can heal any injury of the body, but not of the mind.”

“Bait, then.”

Castiel sighs. “No, Dean. It’s not wise. We could both be killed – and that is the preferable to being caught and tortured, for information we _both_ have now.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Wise, wise, wise,” he repeats impatiently.

“At least let me see if there’s anything here – anything that would suggest a limited number that would know about only those two other cells, identities and locations.”

“Sounds boring.”

“You’d rather be risking death in a wildly dangerous mission with little chance of success?”

“Yes!”

Castiel couldn’t stop himself from giving Dean a look of disbelief. “I’d ask if you’d ever been in danger before, but I know you have, as a hunter.”

“I like doing something, not just sitting around on my ass thinking.”

“What about the safety of others? Sam?”

“I’d never endanger him,” Dean says passionately, eyes narrowing, leaning forward.

“What about me?”

Dean blinks.

“I would be in danger in well, if you were to be bait.”

“Oh,” and Dean’s shoulders slump. “Cross-checking stuff it is, then.”

Castiel watches him for a second. Interesting. And … good. “I’ll go through it, and then you should, to see if I missed anything.”

“Okay.”

“You can look at the movements I recorded,” Castiel jerks his chin in the direction of the map wall, “see if there’s anything you can remember about those places, anything you did that might have attracted their attention. Boring,” Castiel slightly smirks, “but useful.”

Dean cocks his head, half-smiles in defeat. “Okay.”

“Red is confirmed sightings of Michael’s soldiers, yellow possible sightings.”

Dean nods, smile fading, but Castiel can almost see his mind begin to work as he wanders over to the map.

Castiel returns to the laptop.

He knows all of these names, though he did not know where they were, or some of them that they had even fallen and joined the network. It’s arranged by seniority, and Beriel’s name is right after Castiel’s. The list does not include those fallen ones that never regained their grace, or those in support positions. Castiel assumes that means no other support personal were caught, besides Justine, who is listed. There might also be others not listed, those with grace but not in functioning cells.

There are around twenty assignments to each cell here, for the past year. Sometimes fallen angels, sometimes just tracking heaven’s forces, very rarely counter-attacks. Castiel pays special attention to these, which are mostly information-seeking, but result in planned conflict of some kind. These would be a way of a spy getting information to the other side without having any actual secret contact with Michael’s forces. He doesn’t doubt some of these counter-attacks are no more than feints, but those involved have no way of knowing that, so neither does Castiel. He only knows what he needs to know.

He begins a list. Who, besides the cell leaders, know of or might be able to obtain knowledge of Justine? Which cells had members making contact with each other? The answer is supposed to be none, but things are not always that clean. He finds incidents – times when assignments cross over – and starts to list those as well.

He stares at the list, hands lax over the keyboard. He has his answers, which are not, as it turns out, helpful. The lists are too large. They have been too sloppy. There are twenty-two potential spies out of the hundred and sixteen here, each one possibly having access to the people who were killed, when considering that each cell leader could have told their cell members about Justine. But in turn, they all had access to more than that. According to this, if it was any one of them, more would have been caught or killed. So either the list is useless, either because Castiel is missing something or the list itself is missing something, or the spy has a bigger plan at work.

In the background, he can hear Dean moving back and forth behind him, probably bored already, even though it’s only been an hour or two.

Dean plops into the chair beside Castiel. “I listed everywhere I’ve been on the map, which took me about five minutes.”

Castiel blinks slowly, text wavering in front of his eyes, then looks at Dean. “I see.”

“Please _God_ give me something to do,” Dean says, the words coming out in a rush, as he rolls his head back.

Castiel watches as Dean sighs and returns his gaze to him, weirdly fascinated. “All right,” Castiel says. He turns to the computer and closes the text file he had written his lists in. “Go through this, find all instances of cell members seeing or hearing of in any way members outside their own cell. Then cross-check that with instances of any of those having contact with Michael’s forces.”

“Is that what you did? Why not just check yours?”

“You could be swayed by my answers,” Castiel says, quickly typing a list of the shortened terms Anna used, and then shifts the laptop in front of Dean.

“Fair enough,” Dean says with a shrug.

Castiel gets up, but doesn’t move away from the table. He sees Dean begin to focus fully on the information in front of him, one finger tapping the side of the laptop, absentmindedly biting his lower lip.

Castiel shakes himself and turns to the map. Dean had done as he had said, though this probably took more than five minutes. Dean has listed every place he has been, all the hunts he went on and what they were, when, and how long they lasted. Which leads to a surprising conclusion. “Hm.”

“Hm what?” Dean asks, but the words sound distracted.

“Judging from what you have here, you didn’t have a dozen after you. You had a lot more than that. The ones we caught, the sightings we actually saw, were way too accurate for it to be anything but a very large number of angels specifically after you.” Which might coordinate with the theory of the spy having a larger plan than turning over two cell leaders.

“So you were right? This is all related to me, somehow?”

“Maybe. Maybe you were the reason only two cell leaders were killed – maybe some of us were being watched, so they could track us to you. Maybe they’re trying to do both … go up the ladder and find you, and that’s why so few were killed.”

“So few?”

“Of the list I made, each had the capability to take more than one cell leader. No more than five, but no less than three. They don’t necessarily know precise locations, but if they had Michael’s soldiers surveying, they could keep track after just knowing about the cell leaders. Possibly.”

“But you don’t know.”

“I know very little these days, it seems,” Castiel says.

“Getting frustrated?” Dean asks lightly.

“My family being murdered, and still in danger? Wouldn’t you be?” He stares at his hands, realizes they are clenched into fists, and purposefully relaxes them.

Dean looks contrite after a second, when Castiel looks at him. “So what can I do?”

“What you said you would,” Castiel says, more calmly this time. “I need to think.”

Dean reluctantly turns back to the computer. Castiel can feel it the moment his regard fades, even though he’s turned back to the map.

As it stands, there is nothing he can really do with the information he has. Attempting to isolate the twenty-two is certainly a possibility, but not one he can execute. He will have to wait for the meeting with Anna for that. To attempt to do so in any other way would probably just endanger more.

The question is, should he wait for his cell’s meet up in several days to follow through with Dean’s plan? It is the only plan on the table, at the moment, but Balthazar and Wynn are on the list. Can he trust them? There is Ceria, but they will all meet together. To exclude Balthazar and Wynn would be to alert them to the fact they are regarded as suspicious.

Either way, Castiel should be the bait, not Dean. That way, Dean remains the unknown who can close the trap. If Dean were bait, it’s far too likely they would recognize it for what it is, that they would expect Castiel or some other angel in the network to be there. The powerful angel that nearly killed Dean and his family knows Castiel, after all. Knows Castiel grabbed Dean.

If Castiel is the bait, they will not expect Dean, as a human, to be there. No doubt they would plan for an angel, possibly even an angelic Dean (if it is not known widely that Dean’s grace is gone, which is possible – Michael doesn’t communicate well with his forces, fortunately), but just Dean? No. Dean will be able to walk through any trap they will think to set. He will be able to turn the trap on Michael’s soldiers.

But it is still very risky. He must make Dean understand the dangers, if Dean is to knowingly consent – not agree out of boredom. For that matter, it is still the case they could learn nothing, taken that huge risk for nothing. Dean _would_ be safer not playing bait. For that matter, Dean would still be safer elsewhere, even considering the danger to the network as a whole. Castiel is a larger target than most.

There is no physical reason for Castiel to get a headache, but he finds he’s getting one anyway. He walks to the other side of the table and the two bags underneath it. He takes them out, and puts them on the bed. Dean gets up, curious, and looks into one, then gazes at Castiel with a quirked-up eyebrow.

“Well, there’s a good non-sequitur. Angels killing each other turns to fashion.”

“They’re yours,” Castiel says. “You need different clothes for different days.”

“Unlike you, you mean.”

Castiel does not reply, just looks at him.

Dean takes out a shirt, then squints at it. “Dude, is the label in Italian?”

“Their stores were open. Also, I guessed your sizes.”

Dean laughs. “This is really fucking surreal.”

Castiel really has no idea what would count as surreal, though he understands his life is not normal by human standards. He’s less certain of how one deals with surreality. “Would you like to go over the assignments instead?” he suggests.

“Because that’s so much better in the weird department,” Dean says. “Never mind. You care if I change? I’ve been wearing this for days.” He jerks his t-shirt.

“Why would I mind?” Castiel asks blankly. That is the point of the clothes, isn’t it?

Dean shakes his head wordlessly, then grabs a bag and heads for the bathroom.

Castiel settles on the floor, back to the bed, facing the map wall.

The question really is: to endanger Dean, or not to endanger Dean? Castiel cannot be the bait and spring the trap, and if he does not have his cell, he has no one to spring the trap except Dean. Dean.

He’s jerked out of his thoughts when Dean pads back into the room, barefoot and picking lightly at his black shirt. Castiel had attempted to find things similar to what Dean was already wearing, and figures he must have been somewhat successful if Dean is not complaining. Dean gives Castiel a strange look Castiel cannot quite read, before he returns to the chair and the laptop. He starts going through the files, typing every once in a while, humming something.

Castiel watches him, stiller than any human could ever be. Dean isn’t, of course – he twitches, hums, taps his finger on the table, bites his lip while his expression changes. There’s something fascinating about it, and Castiel realizes this is the closest he’s been to an actual human for an extended period – or at least, a fallen one with no memory of anything else – in his entire life.

Finally, Dean looks over at Castiel. “Done, but I didn’t find anything useful, I don’t think.”

Castiel gets up and checks Dean’s work by looking over his shoulder. He feels more than sees Dean twitch. Dean essentially came up with the same data, though what he thinks of that data Castiel doesn’t know.

“Looks like it could be any number of them. There’s no real proof, nothing that says outright who it is,” Dean adds.

“Yes,” Castiel agrees with a sigh.

“So, bait,” Dean pokes.

Castiel says nothing.

Dean rolls his eyes. “What now?”

“I think it might be best if you were left in the care of one of us who has fallen, like you,” Castiel says suddenly, the thought occurring and speaking it out loud almost at the same time.

Dean gets up, takes a step closer to Castiel, face falling into a weird calm. Almost unconsciously, Castiel takes a step back in response. “No.”

“They would understand you better –“ Castiel tries.

“Is that really it?”

“What else would it be?” He can’t look at Dean.

“I’m supposed to just follow along with whatever you say and sit on my ass while my supposed family is out there dying, is that right?”

Castiel swallows. “You would be safer.”

“You want them to convince me to go along with what you say, don’t you? Well, guess what? I’m not someone you can just order around! You’re not –“

“Someone with that authority?” Castiel guesses, John Winchester’s stern visage entering his mind.

“Damn straight!” Dean yells. “All that talk about helping me and not wanting me to be ‘uncomfortable’ – it’s all bullshit, isn’t it? You’re just trying to run circles around me. You already said I’m involved, so why the hell are you just shoving me off to someone else? Which, by the way, you said you weren’t going to do?”

“They would understand you, know you, Dean –“

“I don’t know _them_! How can I trust them?”

“I don’t think you trust _me_ ,” Castiel says, something tightening in his chest.

“Well – well, I trust you more than I trust some bozo off the street,” Dean replies, looking off balance. “You’re the one who found me, you’re the one who’s told me everything, and you said – you said you wouldn’t –“

“It was a suggestion, Dean.” To persist would only damage whatever he does have with Dean, the fragile trust he’d created. The insistence on not being left strikes Castiel is peculiar, and he doesn’t quite know how to respond to it. “Not demanding such.”

“Sure didn’t sound like a suggestion!”

Castiel goes back to the reason for the suggestion in the first place, at least part of the reason. “I don’t want you to be bait, Dean. I don’t want you involved at all. You don’t comprehend how helpless you are.”

“What, like you’re so much better? That other one, who was after me – she almost killed you, didn’t she?”

“But she didn’t,” Castiel says. “I knew how to protect myself.”

“So teach me, dammit,” Dean says.

“I-“

“I think you’re scared,” Dean cuts him off, leaning forward, all intent and anger.

“Scared of what?” Castiel asks, surprised.

“Me – being human, actually feeling something. You talk about your family, about all that emotional crap, but you never feel it. You try to be this robot, don’t you? I bet you hardly ever see your cell, you just wander around by yourself,” Dean accused.

Castiel smacks his palm down on the table with so much force one of the legs breaks, the laptop skittering off onto the floor. “As if _you_ would understand what I do or what I am!”

Dean stares at him silently.

Castiel takes a deep breath. Dean had cut closer than Castiel would have expected him to be able to, given Dean’s short knowledge of Castiel. Good instincts or his buried memory, Castiel doesn’t know which. “I’m sorry.”

“Whose fault is that?” Dean says quietly, answering Castiel’s question.

 _Mine_. “I don’t know what to do,” Castiel confesses finally, feeling weak for admitting it.

“Then talk to me. I’m right here, waiting,” Dean says, throwing his arms wide.

Castiel stares at the table for a few long seconds. Dean wants to be Castiel’s equal. Not his subordinate. And certainly not his charge.

“It might be wise to delay using you or me as bait, until I’ve seen my cell,” Castiel says, knowing he’s changing the subject, but unable to help himself.

“You trust them?” Dean asks calmly.

Castiel looks at him, surprised by the non-reaction. “I …” Once, he would have said yes, without hesitation. “Mostly. It is highly unlikely it was one of them, or I would have been caught.”

“So they –“

“Michael’s soldiers,” Castiel murmurs.

“- Never came after you?”

“No, they did.” At Justine’s. A holy oil trap. “But I escaped.”

“Doesn’t sound safe to me,” Dean says carefully.

Castiel gives him a hard look. “No, it doesn’t.” He evaluates what he should say. “Dean, if we were to use your plan, it would better that I be bait than you. Not because of any lacking on your part, but they will hardly believe you to be alone, whereas they might be convinced of that in my case.”

“Because they don’t know that I don’t remember,” Dean says slowly. “And they’d assume you’d stick around to protect me.”

Castiel spreads his hands. “So I am left as the only option.”

“Then let’s do that. You said it yourself, you don’t necessarily trust your cell, and I haven’t been in a position to be the spy.” He waves his hand at the laptop on the floor. “This isn’t enough, right? You need information?”

Castiel looks away. “I may have to kill or torture for that information, Dean.”

Dean is quiet for a long second. “You would do that?” he asks finally.

“You don’t object on moral grounds?” Castiel replies, cocking his head.

“I – I don’t know.” Something flickers across Dean’s face, too fast for Castiel to understand.

Castiel watches him carefully for several long seconds. He himself is willing, the circumstances dire enough he thinks it’s warranted, but doing so in front of Dean … There’s a reason he was relieved Dean did not know about the blond girl. Humans react to these things very powerfully in this age, and he expects Dean to be no different.

“Can you step aside?” Castiel asks. “If the time comes?” Some angels are receptive to such methods; others are not.

“You’re my family, right?” Dean says. He exhales shakily, and meets Castiel’s gaze with a hard look in his own. “I’ll do anything for family.”

Castiel nods slowly, decision made. “I am supposed to meet my cell within a week. We will plan to set the trap before then. I will have to teach you how to close it.”

Dean searches his eyes. “Cas. Thanks.”

Castiel lowers his head in acknowledgement. They stand there, the two of them, the moment slowly expanding, awkwardly. Then Castiel kneels and gets the laptop, placing it on one of the counters in the kitchen. It’s not broken, fortunately.

“I have to admit something,” Dean says abruptly. “You’ve been – well, not quite nothing but honest, but close enough.”

“What is it?” Castiel turns around.

Dean moves over the bed and sits, elbows on his knees, head resting in one hand as he runs a hand through his hair. “I think I remember falling,” he almost whispers.

“You do?” Castiel steps closer to him, quickly. “What do you remember?” he presses.

“It hurt,” Dean says, looking up. “It hurt a lot. Like I was tearing myself in half. I remember – remember light everywhere, inside me and outside of me, and then being somewhere else, split apart.”

“What else?”

“I was angry,” Dean admits. “I was so angry. I don’t know why, but that’s what comes through the clearest. The anger. Ever since that angel in the suit, that moment keeps – echoing in my head, I don’t know.”

“It is possible you knew her, knew her well, from before you fell, and that’s how your memory was triggered,” Castiel muses.

“Maybe.” He stares at Castiel. “You seem familiar to me, too. I think I knew you.”

Castiel frowns. “I’m sorry, I don’t know who you are. Not enough of your grace remains for it to be distinct enough for me. Someone who knows you better might, perhaps, but there’s no way to tell. That you don’t remember is unusual, not a problem we’re commonly faced with.”

Dean sighs. “Figures.”

“What?”

“Nothing is ever easy,” Dean says wryly.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Castiel asks.

“I don’t know,” Dean says. “Something told me to keep it back, I don’t know why.”

Castiel searches Dean’s face for lies, and finds none. “Dean, if we are going to pull off any attempt to capture one of the enemy, you need to trust me completely. Is there anything else you haven’t told me?”

“No. No, I swear, there’s nothing. That’s all I remember.”

Castiel pauses. “Is there anything else _not_ regarding your memory?”

Dean sighs, then gives Castiel a wearied stare. “Does that matter?”

“It may.”

“There’s nothing.” Dean’s tone is even, unemotional.

“I doubt that.”

Dean looks irritated, folding his arms with jerky movements. “Fine. There’s nothing besides my fucked up feelings of guilt because I killed my mother.”

“You didn’t kill your mother.”

“It’s my fault, though, isn’t it? You said it, it’s my fault my family has suffered, my fault Mom died and fucked up Dad and made Sammy live without a home.” Dean’s shoulders hunch, guilt a shadow lain upon his face. “You’re right, you know. That I should stay away from them. I guess …. I guess that’s why I haven’t pushed it.”

Castiel isn’t sure what to say.

“Anyway, yes, that’s it, can we stop talking about it now?”

“Thank you for telling me,” Castiel says. He hesitates, then, “I don’t truly know if it’s related to you, Dean. Many demons kill randomly, with no thought or plan behind the act.”

“Hell of a coincidence, though, isn’t it?”

Castiel can’t deny that. “If it was – then such a reaction is uncommon. I have never heard of it happening before, a family being targeted for that reason alone.”

“So I’m just special?” His tone drips sarcasm, but there’s only tiredness in his eyes.

“Some families of fallen angels are familiar with the supernatural, or have had experiences with it, at least. I remember one family was followed by ghosts wherever they went, because of their daughter.” Justine, actually. “The ghosts felt somehow that she could help them cross over, or at least believed that to be the case, if they were capable of that degree of thought.”

“Most ghosts just replay a pattern over and over,” Dean says. “Aren’t really the talkative types, either.”

Castiel shrugs lightly, the action slightly uncomfortable. “As I said, it’s not your fault. You had no way of knowing.”

Dean shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything. His head is still lowered, eyes cast in shadow.

Castiel looks at one of the cabinets in the kitchen. “I can show you the banishing sigil I used on the angel that attacked you and your family, as well as some others that we will use to the trap an angel. I have old maps in there that we can use for practice.”

Dean takes a deep breath, face turning towards Castiel, towards the light. Castiel sees the sadness in those green eyes, but has no idea what else he can offer. “Sounds like a good idea,” Dean says.

\-----------------------------

Dean is, fortunately, a quick learner.

He was not too pleased to discover that the banishing sigil requires relatively fresh blood, but the others were simpler, both in content and items required. Castiel tested his memory several times, but Dean was able to reconstruct each sigil he was taught very quickly, Castiel would guess because of his past as a hunter.

Dean’s sitting, tracing the marks he’s already made, when he looks up thoughtfully, focusing on Castiel.

“So, angels, huh?” Dean starts awkwardly.

Castiel looks at him sideways. “Yes.”

“And God’s gone,” Dean adds.

“Preferring not to be seen or heard, apparently. He is God, after all; He cannot die.”

“Doesn’t that, you know, bother you – Him disappearing? I mean, it’s fucked up for everyone, it’s God, but it’s different for you, isn’t it?”

Castiel is silent for several long seconds. “I suppose we are no different than any other children abandoned by their parents. Hurt, and questioning the reasons for it.”

“I get that,” Dean says, a dark look entering his eyes.

“From personal experience?” Castiel questions, curious.

“No. I mean, he – my Dad – he’s great, and he’s done the best he could,” Dean says, lifting his shoulders, slightly defensive.

“I mean no offense,” Castiel is quick to add.

“S’all right. It is – I mean, it was just me and Sam, and it made us closer for a long time. Dad’s always been awesome, always wanted to keep us safe, even if he wasn’t around a lot.” Dean frowns for a second. “Siblings can make up for a lot, I guess. Sam’s – Sam’s a pain in the ass, but he’s my family.” A smile, now.

“I understand,” Castiel says gently.

Dean shakes his head, gets up and stares down at the sigils. “So when do we do it?” He keeps glancing now and again at the sigils, as if still memorizing. There’s an energy to the movement that was lacking before, an intentness. Castiel wonders if this is the hunter in Dean, the part trained to vanquish evil.

“Tomorrow,” Castiel says. “You might as well be fully rested for it.”

“And we’re just going to sit here until then?”

Castiel turns from the laptop – uselessly studying the information, again – to gaze at Dean. “You would prefer to go somewhere else?”

“Better than staring at the wall.” He bounds up from the bed, where he’d been sitting. “Hey, might be our last night on earth, right? Might as well enjoy it.” His mouth quirks into a half smile when he looks at Castiel. “What do angels do for fun?”

Castiel’s mind goes blank. In heaven, they worshipped God when they were not doing something else. Castiel visits beautiful places, when he has no mission to attend to, but he’s not sure Dean would consider that ‘fun’. And he’s not sure what fallen angels do for fun, besides human activities that Castiel is less than familiar with. Watching people pretend to do things has always struck Castiel as pointless, so he does not watch any sort of entertainment. “I don’t know.”

Dean squints at him. “You do have fun, don’t you?”

“I enjoy my duty.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “That’s not fun.” Then he appears to reconsider. “Well, yeah, it can be. Smoking some evil monster can be pretty cool, I’ll admit.”

“You want to go hunting?” Castiel guesses uncertainly.

“Nah,” Dean says, waving his hand in dismissal. “Let’s do the great American pastime. Beer!”

Castiel frowns. “I’m not sure imbibing alcohol right before an important mission is a good idea.”

“You whammied away my injuries, didn’t you? Don’t think I didn’t notice that.”

Well, Castiel had wondered.

“I assume you can do the same with a hangover.” He lifts one eyebrow, waiting.

“Yes,” Castiel says reluctantly. Then he realizes with that word he’s giving in, something he seems to do very easily with Dean. “Very well, where do you wish to go?”

Dean names the place and its location, and then they are there.

It’s not entirely unlike the Harvelle’s place, in that it has a specific clientele and is insular in its own way. It’s dark and filled with smoke when he and Dean go past the flickering sign – Castiel is certain it’s not him, this time – into the bar. It’s filled with people drinking and laughing, and there’s some kind of game (football, it looks like) on a television in the corner, the sound of it almost drowned out by the noise of conversation. Still, the bar looks clean, even if the floor is almost littered with beer caps and nut shells.

Dean walks in with great assurance, though Castiel knows that in theory Dean should only ever have been to such a place recently, considering his age. He has the feeling Dean has been to a bar many times before, however.

A man, watchful in the corner, catches Castiel’s eye. He’s looking around with a strange attentiveness that is lacking in the other bar patrons, and though he has a drink in hand and appears to sip from it, Castiel can tell he has not actually imbibed any of it.

Strange.

“ – Cas?”

He turns, finding himself already seated at the bar without even thinking about it. “Yes?”

Dean holds out a beer, the lid already flipped off. There’s a half challenge in his eyes.

One Castiel meets. “I don’t drink.”

“You don’t eat either, but you do when you’re with me.”

“And this should be the same for what reason?”

“C’mon, it looks weird when you go to a bar and don’t drink.”

Something flitters into Castiel’s mind about one of a group not drinking, but the notion isn’t clear enough to pin down. Another of the things in this world that pass by Castiel, seemingly unimportant save for how often humans – Dean – references them. “Fine.”

Dean looks oddly delighted when Castiel takes the beer and takes a huge gulp. It does not taste like anything in particular. Bitter, maybe, but the flavor is of no interest.

Dean laughs. “You should see the look on your face.”

“I am glad to amuse you,” Castiel says wryly, setting the beer on the bar.

“Can you get drunk?” Dean asks curiously, then tips back his own beer and swallows, his throat working twice before he sets it down again.

“I don’t think so. Drugs do not affect me.”

“That sucks,” Dean says. “Getting drunk is the best part, and I have plenty for us to get drunk – hey, what do you guys do for money?”

The switch in topic is sudden, but Castiel is starting to get used to this aspect of Dean, the ever-present curiosity. The others don’t get the opportunity to ask, since once they remember, the rest tends to follow naturally, with few explanations needed.

“We make investments,” Castiel says. “Under false names, of course, though nothing we do is illegal. But our organization does not need a lot of money, Dean.”

“What with the no sleeping, no eating?”

“Living costs are primarily what humans spend money on. That is not a requirement for most of us.”

“Huh.” Apparently satisfied, Dean turns back to his beer. He downs the rest in seconds. The bartender wanders over, and Dean gestures with the bottle. It’s replaced quickly, and Dean starts chugging this one down quickly as well.

Dean had spoken of this like it was a fun activity, but Castiel is beginning to sense that was not, in fact, the point here. The narcotic effect of alcohol is.

Castiel dithers uselessly for a second about what to do, then turns and looks sharply.

The man is gone.

There’s a shiver of unease working its way up Castiel’s spine, but he has no proof of danger. It seems far-fetched that there could be. Random flight cannot be tracked, and he was careful enough on the way here. He reaches out with his senses, as much as he can here without disrupting anything electrical, but finds nothing. He knows without a doubt the man was not an angel, so it seems like there should be no danger. Seems.

Dean is oblivious, and by the time Castiel returns his attention, Dean has five empty bottles in front of him, and he’s glaring darkly at the bar, eyes downcast.

“Are you sufficiently intoxicated?”

“Can I be suff- sufficiently intoxicated for this shit?” Dean replies, looking up blearily. He faces the bartender. “Another.”

The man eyes Dean warily, but gives it to him.

“Dean, are you well?”

“No,” Dean says shortly.

“I do not think –“

“Shut up,” Dean snaps.

“This is not helping you,” Castiel tries.

“Oh, yes, it _is_.” He slams the bottle down with such force the bar vibrates, and some beer slops out of the container.

 _“You are upset,” Castiel now sees. “And you are attempting to put yourself into a stupor so you are no longer capable of thought.”_

 _Dean turns his glare to Castiel. “So what?”_

 _“I think we should leave, Dean.”_

 _To his surprise, Dean gets up, reaches into his back pocket for his wallet, and throws cash on the bar, without looking to see the amount. Then he starts stumbling out of the bar, Castiel following cautiously, keeping an eye out for that stranger._

 _Dean stops walking in the middle of the parking lot, and stares up at the night sky. “I hate this,” he mutters so quietly Castiel is sure he’s not meant to hear it._

 _He answers anyway. “I’m sorry for what you’re going through.” He has seen it before, though never experienced it himself. His own separation from his family was different, laden with betrayal, not love._

 _“Oh, like that means anything?” Dean retorts._

 _“My concern for your welfare is not meaningless.”_

 _“Okay, useless then,” Dean says, throwing his arms up in the air and then heaving a sigh as he almost falls over. “God, now I’m fucked up _and_ drunk. This was a great plan.”_

“Do you want me to –“ And he starts to reach out, two fingers extended.

“No!” Dean retreats, backing into a car.

Castiel tilts his head, watching, his hand lowering to his side. “What do you hate?”

Dean blinks at him. “What?”

“What about your situation do you hate?” Castiel pushes.

Dean’s mouth opens and closes a few times, then his eyes shut for one long second, before he opens them again. “I sh - screwed everything up for them, and there’s nothing I can do. I can’t even go back and say I’m sorry. Dad didn’t – he didn’t believe me, when I told him, just kept shouting at me to stay away from you, because you were a monster, and how anything you said was …”

“Ah.”

“And I can’t even do anything – I’m helpless, you said it yourself. Yeah, I can draw shit in my own blood, but anyone can do that. Angels are – they’re supposed to be – but I’m _not_.”

“To lean upon another in a time of need is no weakness, Dean,” Castiel says. “I have done as much with my brothers and sisters, many times.”

Castiel could see by the look on Dean’s face that Dean didn’t believe him. Maybe didn’t even really comprehend the words. Guilt and something else hung around him, something dark. Castiel watches as Dean turns away, starts walking in a random direction. After a second, Castiel follows.

Dean abruptly turns back, and shouts, “Do you have to be everywhere?”

“For the moment,” Castiel replies evenly. For reasons probably best left unsaid, at this point.

But then, he didn’t need to say them. Dean snorted, then took an uneven breath. “I killed my mom, Cas.”

Castiel walks, quickly, to his side. “You did not.”

“I did! And then I was just a burden to the family that survived – a family that should never have had to delsh – deal with me in the first place!”

“You want to repay them?”

“Yes,” Dean says fervently. “Yes.”

This, _this_ grief Castiel knows how to attack. “We hunt demons, Dean. We don’t just fight each other. Why do you think demonic possession is so rare? That exorcism is so rarely necessary? We try to help the human world. You can do that, Dean, even if you never recover your grace.” At least, he can support those he can. A distinction he will not mention, for the moment.

But Dean is looking at him, now, searching and suspicious. Then he nods, keeping is head down, rubbing his eyes, tenseness holding in his body. It turns to a quiver, repressed.

There’s no tears when he looks up, but Castiel sees the circles underneath, the redness in the white of Dean’s eyes. “You’re just fucking with me, lying to me, aren’t you, Cas?” He almost hisses it. “Like before?”

“I –“

Dean punches him. Castiel barely feels it, but Dean’s loud yelp of pain echoes in the empty parking lot.

“That was not wise,” Castiel says.

“Obviously,” Dean says with a withering look, cradling one hand.

“I wasn’t lying to you, Dean,” Castiel says. “You can continue to hunt, in a way. You can’t kill demons with a touch –“

“With a touch?” Dean mutters, a spark of interest flaring and dying in his eyes.

“ – but there are things you can do. And you will remember, Dean, what you are. That you already have a piece of your life before confirms it.”

“And what, things will magically be better then?”

“You will know your purpose,” Castiel says. “To not know one’s purpose … it is worse than death.”

Dean’s gaze is surprisingly sharp at those words. “You would know?”

Castiel hesitates. “Yes.”

Dean goes unfocused, lost in his own head. Castiel waits, wondering what will arise next, alarmed and curious at the same time.

He sees the stranger, the man, walking out from behind the bar, expression intent and focused on them.

Castiel reacts, grabbing Dean and pulling, stilling when they are both back in the safehouse.

Dean goes green, wordless, and bolts for the bathroom. Before Castiel even reach it, he hears the sound of retching. He finds Dean on the floor in front of the toilet, spitting. “Thanks for the warning,” Dean snarls.

“My apologies.”

Dean stands, a little wobbly, but Castiel doesn’t move forward to help. Dean moves past him to the bed, sitting on it.

“Do you want me to …?”

“Not a hangover yet,” Dean replies, hoarse.

“Dean. Let me do something for you.” He kneels in front of Dean, to look Dean in the eye.

“Why?” Dean asks blankly, eyeing his position with something almost like trepidation.

“I do not like to see you in pain,” Castiel says. He doesn’t think he’s seen one of his family in this much pain, this emotional. Angels control their emotions, when they even have them. Some are very limited in how much they can feel, unless they are fallen like Dean – then, they drown in it, but it tends to fade as the angelic self returns. Not always, but sometimes. But there is no returning here. This pain is raw and aching, but there’s no wound to knit closed, no wound he can heal.

“Why do you care?” Dean’s green eyes move up, lazily, to Castiel’s face.

“I know pain,” Castiel says. He experienced it, so intimately, that day when he found out the truth. “And you do not deserve it. You are – good, Dean. I see how much you care for others, that you hunt, and your human family.”

“You just don’t quit, do you?” Dean says.

“Should I?”

“Others do,” Dean says. He blinks, looking ashamed at the words.

“I won’t,” Castiel says simply.

Dean stares at him, eyes flickering from one point of Castiel’s face to another. He has a slight frown, but more contemplative than angry or impatient. “Okay,” he acknowledges.

They sit there for a second, staring at one another. Castiel can almost see Dean’s mind turning over their words over and over, and waits patiently. Then Dean breaks their gaze, focusing instead on the bed. “I should sleep.” He holds up a hand to stop Castiel from speaking. “On my own. I’m not a little kid. I don’t like being taken care of, you know.”

Castiel considers Dean’s wariness of him, his surprise that Castiel keeps to him, and isn’t so sure that’s the case. There’s something lost about Dean, but Castiel says nothing.

Dean slumps sideways onto the bed, kicks off his shoes and then brings up his feet and curls them up, not bothering to undress, all the while looking at Castiel.

Castiel nods, gets up and turns off the light, then returns to his previous position near the bed, sitting cross-legged. Dean’s arm flops over the side of the bed, almost touching Castiel’s knee.

That almost-contact remains until Dean falls asleep, and resumes only once, when Dean has a nightmare that Castiel soothes away with a touch to the forehead along with any aftereffect of the alcohol, Dean stilling, and then Castiel also stilling, once again.

\-----------------------------

The plan is simple. Castiel moves from location to location, until he catches sight of one of Michael’s soldiers – one that meets the criteria. Strong enough to be willing to chase Castiel, not too strong for him to handle if things go wrong. Once those conditions are met, Castiel does what was tried with him, leading him to a place where Dean is ready with holy oil waiting to be lit. It’s possible to imprison an angel this way almost indefinitely, so they will have plenty of time to interrogate him or her. If he or she attempts to step over the line of fire, he or she dies. If they do not, others methods may be implemented, to weaken them enough to lower the holy fire, allow Castiel, at least, to get close.

There are ways of stopping an angel’s flight, weakening them, ways he can prepare if it comes to that.

Castiel has one advantage: he has no faith in his own superiority. It’s a marked characteristic of Michael’s forces, that heaven will win because it must. Of course, it does not seem to Castiel that Michael’s underlings really understand the battle they are waging – one of ideas, ideas of freedom, more than right or wrong. To rail against fate, and then change it. In this kind of war, the longer the network lasts, the weaker Michael’s forces become. There is no doubt Michael knows this. And it may explain the quick attack, instead of waiting for his spy to become more entrenched.

But what does Dean have to do with it?

Castiel shakes his head, glancing again at Dean’s sleeping face. In the meantime, Michael’s forces wages this war with certainty, one Castiel hopes will lead this angel they catch to reveal more than he or she intends.

It is a weak thread. A weak hope. But Castiel can think of nothing else, not until he meets with Anna again. Not to mention, the meeting with his own cell. He still hasn’t decided what to do with that. It must occur, of course, but what to tell them? What to trust them with?

Castiel hears a heavy sigh, Dean shifting in bed.

It’s near dawn, close enough to wake.

Castiel rises to his feet and switches the light on. He hears a grunt, turns to see Dean’s eyes opening, arms flailing briefly. He’d kicked off his blanket in the middle of the night, and his t-shirt has ridden up, exposing his stomach, which he scratches lazily with one hand.

“Morning already?” he asks with an arm thrown over his eyes.

“Yes,” Castiel says. “Or close enough.”

Dean pauses in the midst of getting up, eyes him. “Anxious to get going?”

“I suppose,” Castiel says neutrally.

“Don’t you get bored sitting there all night?” Dean asks as he swings his legs over, then standing.

“Stillness is not always boredom.”

“Whatever that means,” Dean mutters, then shuts the bathroom door with a click.

Castiel turns away, after a second’s consideration moving to the kitchen. Dean had liked eggs before, and there are still some left. He hadn’t planned on food for two, so after today he’ll have to go for more perishable items, as he guesses that Dean will want to him to eat again. He’s not sure what to make of the humanization Dean is attempting. Perhaps it is a way for Dean to become more comfortable with Castiel, to see him in terms he is used to. Certainly Dean is accustomed to anything supernatural being something to hunt, not have breakfast with.

The bathroom door opens, and Dean strides out confidently, not even bothering to look at Castiel as he starts searching through the cupboard and then the drawers. He pulls a can of chopped tomatoes from one place, then starts rifling through the drawers more carefully.

Finally, he stops. “Cas. You have canned food and no can opener.”

Castiel frowns, heads on over to the countertop and presses one finger on top of the can. The top pops off.

“You’re like a magical genie, aren’t you?” Dean says, looking at Castiel sideways.

“I do not share characteristics with genii. They incapacitate their victims by –“

“ _Never mind_.” Then, “Wait, genies exist?”

“They do not grant wishes by changing reality, but put their victims into a coma where they live fantasy lives while the creature feeds off of their blood.”

Dean makes a face. “That’s a letdown. Hey, you’re like a walking encyclopedia on the supernatural, right? I mean, I never thought you guys existed, but here you are …”

“Angels came first, so yes, we are quite familiar with the wide array of the supernatural.”

Dean seems to contemplate that for a moment, then shrugs and gets out the box of eggs, before searching the refrigerator. “Hey, any sausage?”

“I could get some.”

Dean points at him. “The good stuff!”

Castiel frowns. “What –“

“Something expensive,” Dean cuts him off, apparently guessing his question.

“Very well,” Castiel says, but doesn’t leave.

“I’ll be fine. Shoo.” He accompanies the words with a motion for Castiel to go. “Go fly.”

Castiel chooses a grocery store in California, wandering around the state briefly before finding one that’s open. (He could steal, he supposed, but the idea grated.) He wanders down several aisles before finding the meat section, reading the labels with no small amount of confusion. Preservatives, nitrates or nitrates-free, cured or uncured … He grabs one at random and goes to pay for it.

When he returns, Dean is hovering over a pan with oil heating. He’s also changed, into a gray long-sleeved shirt, sleeves pulled up to his elbows, his hair wet and droplets of water running down his neck. He turns to look at Castiel. “Do you know you do that whooshing thing every time you flit in like that? Is that your wings?”

“They rarely interact with this dimension, stopping or going somewhere being one of the few times.” He hands Dean the package.

Dean rips it apart, throws the meat into the pan. “Is this what you really look like?” He waved at Castiel’s body with one greasy hand, but his gaze is sharp, as if something is suddenly occurring to him.

“It is not my true form, no.”

“Then why … ? Where do you get your body?”

Castiel blinks. But of course, Dean wouldn’t know. How would he? And it was not relevant to tell him because he’s fallen, the body he was born into would be a suitable vessel with some help. “Empty bodies are made for us, when we don’t fall like you have, when we’re not born into a human body. But Michael’s soldiers inhabit human beings, as vessels.”

“Like – like real, conscious human beings?”

“Yes.”

Dean looks horrified. “They possess people like demons do?”

“Not exactly,” Castiel says. “Permission must be given. But technically, that permission does not have to be freely given.”

“You mean they can coerce people into agreeing to being jumped?”

“Yes.” Castiel pauses. “It is not something we approve of, for obvious reasons, and we do not do it ourselves.”

“If you make empty, er, vessels, why don’t they?”

“I imagine they don’t know how.” Castiel walked over the stove, eyeing the pan. The meat is starting to brown and almost burn, and Castiel’s sudden attention to it seems to draw Dean’s attention as well.

He starts flipping and cutting the sausage into pieces. “Meaning what, exactly? How do you know how, and they don’t?”

“What are you making?” Castiel asks instead.

Dean frowns. “Don’t change the subject.”

Castiel deliberately makes his expression bland, having a feeling his answer won’t satisfy. “We can go over that later.”

Dean starts cutting the meat with more force. “You know, friends don’t try to pull bullshit with each other.”

Something pinged in Castiel’s chest, and he looked away guiltily. “You consider us friends?”

“I’d like to think we’re not enemies,” Dean snaps.

“It’s not important to our mission at the moment.” Before Dean can interrupt, he continues, “And this isn’t something we generally tell newcomers to the network. I’m not being biased, it’s not something we share unless or until we need to.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” Dean says warily.

“It’s the most important part,” Castiel admits, “but not everything. But it will have to suffice for the moment. Some have never learned the entirety of how we make empty vessels, Dean, even if they have their own guesswork.”

Dean says nothing. He starts slicing an onion Castiel had basically bought on a whim, throwing into the pan, where it sizzles and fills the air with a pleasant smell.

“Dean.”

Dean takes the eggs, whips them fast, and puts it into the skillet. He dumps half the can of chopped tomato in as well. “Omelet,” he says.

“Is there something else you would like to know?” Castiel tries.

Dean turns an even stare Castiel’s way. There’s less hostility there, though, as though recognizing the peace offering for what it is. “Okay. When did you join the network?”

“When it was first created,” Castiel says, relaxing. This is a question he can answer easily. “Do you remember the tree I brought you to, when I first explained what you are?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, scraping the eggs from the sides absentmindedly, most of his focus on Castiel.

“She fell before I came to earth, but she and I were the technically the first of the network.”

“So what, you’re the head honcho? I didn’t get that impression.”

“Because I’m not. Hierarchy in heaven is determined by power, nothing else. Michael rules because he is the most powerful of the archangels, even more powerful than Lucifer. It seemed logical to us at the time that I not be given such a position, because I’m weaker, more easily taken down – and tortured, if it comes to that. So I’m only a cell leader.”

“So how many are there? In the network, I mean? Did the list have them all?”

“No, that only included active cells. I don’t know the exact number, though my superior – Anna – does, as well as some others.”

“Huh.” Dean flips the eggs. “It doesn’t bother you not to be in charge?”

“Why should it?”

Dean shrugs. “I dunno. Human nature, I guess.” He smiles, quick and bright, and Castiel lets out a breath. “But I guess that’s a stupid thing to say, huh?”

“Humans are … tend to be more emotional than angels.”

“I’ll take your word for it. Bowl?” Dean asks, pointing with the spatula to a cabinet.

Castiel takes out one –

“Two!”

Two, and places them on the countertop. Dean lifts the pan and puts an equal amount of eggs into each. He grabs a fork, hands another to Castiel, then turns to stare at the table.

“Guess we’ll have to eat standing,” he says, as the table as still half-destroyed.

“Yes,” Castiel says uncomfortably. “I’ll replace the table later.”

“No need to redecorate on my account,” Dean says, mouth already half-full. “I have another question. What do you look like, then, when you’re not in a human body?”

“I’m not sure there are really human words to describe us,” Castiel says. “We are large, I suppose. We exist simultaneously in several planes, and many of us have more than the two wings traditionally shown in human culture.”

“More than two? But you do have them?” Dean deliberately looks at Castiel’s bowl as he speaks, and Castiel obediently takes a bite with his fork.

“Think of it like a crystal with many faces,” Castiel says after swallowing. “Only a few of the faces show completely at any one time. If we do manifest our wings – something that would blind most humans merely to see – only two appear on this plane.”

“That’s weird.”

“It is simply how we were created, Dean. No more strange than only having one head.”

Dean laughs. “So I’m some multi-headed, multi-winged thing? I mean, in reality?”

“There are differences in what we look like, but yes.”

A few minutes of silence pass. Dean appears to be thinking over Castiel’s words, and to Castiel’s relief, he seems to have forgotten about his anger at Castiel’s dodging about his past. Castiel can see Dean’s aura, of course, but he’s finding it less accurate in guessing Dean’s moods or predicting his behavior than he would have thought. Of course, he’s been told many times, mostly by Balthazar, that human nuance regularly goes right over his head.

“Do you eat? In your natural form?” Dean asks suddenly.

“No. It is not necessary. Which is why I do not care for food.”

Dean arches an eyebrow. “Really?”

Castiel looks down at his bowl. It’s empty.

When he looks up, Dean is grinning, triumphant.

\-----------------------------

Castiel chooses a dead town. About half of the buildings that once made up this place still stand, the others having fallen into disrepair, a storm here and there doing the rest, water and wind and time doing their work, returning the place to the wild. The town consists of one road lined with a few small buildings that once held businesses, a few houses in the area, more a few miles out. One of those houses has a barn that is still intact, walls and roof still steady. It had been well made, once, and should keep any rain out. They don’t want the sigils on the walls to fade or smear, after all.

They spend the morning filling it with mostly incomplete sigils. A few are completed – ones of hiding, which will not affect Castiel since he knows where this place is already – but most will need to be completed by Dean, once they lure the angel here.

How long that will take, Castiel does not know.

“I’ll be ready, don’t worry,” Dean assures him as they work.

The barn has two levels, the main floor and a very small loft that was probably once used to store hay. The wooden floors take the markings easily, after Castiel does some cleaning – the layers and layers of dirt and dust would only scatter, and thus break the sigil’s hold – and Dean sits patiently right next to the unlit circle of holy oil in the middle of the barn. There are two other similarly unlit circles, one in front of each of the two doors.

The barn is dimly lit, light filtering in from cracks in the wood walls, the place gray even in the height of the sun. It does not matter. Something tells Castiel they will not be here long enough for the darkness of night to be important.

Castiel finishes all but the last stroke of the sigil to keep angels from taking flight – he will have to walk out of here, when Dean closes it – the dust of the chalk clinging to his fingers. He flicks it off, notices Dean watching him.

Dean finishes his, glancing Castiel’s way again as soon as he’s done. He looks around, apparently noting all the work they’ve done, the walls covered as high as Dean can reach with everything they both of them could think of. (Dean keeps muttering about making the place a kid’s art project.)

Dean is nervous energy, awake and almost too alert. He steps in front of Castiel, not speaking.

Castiel reaches into his pocket, takes out a cell phone and a piece of paper and hands them to Dean.

“What’s this?” Dean asks suspiciously. He stuffs the cell into his jeans, but looks at the paper.

“If I don’t come back within six hours, call this number. The person on the other line can help you.”

“Can I trust them?”

“As much as anyone can be trusted, yes.”

Dean unfolds the paper, then refolds it. “But you are coming back, right?”

“Or I’ll die trying.”

Dean jerks his head upward sharply, then nods slowly. “Right. See you soon.”

Castiel spreads his wings and flies.

It is instinct that guides Castiel to the bar he and Dean had left the night before.

It looks different in daylight, the light still flickering, but the parking lot is nearly empty, and the surrounding businesses have their lights on, a few customers meandering in and out. The street is lined with cars, apartment buildings sitting opposite the drinking establishment with windows closed and covered with bars. The place is largely quiet, the sun leaving long shadows. It’s still morning, even after covering the barn with sigils. The day hasn’t quite lost the chill of night.

Castiel spreads out his senses, lifting his wings a bit, trying to feel if there’s anything supernatural here. Anything familiar.

Then he begins walking. He walks almost a mile, before he finds the stranger he saw the night before.

The instant the man sees him, Castiel feels the man pray; he can’t hear it, it’s not directed at him, but he feels it, this close.

He turns to see a blade flashing downward, and Castiel jerks back, the strike falling through air, the angel shifting back onto his heels, regaining his balance. Castiel takes a moment to judge him, judge his strength, and whether it is superior to Castiel’s own. He’s in a smaller male vessel, plaid shirt and jeans, wings straight and stiff. The after-image of the angel himself is no larger than the human body, in angelic terms. Not quite equal to Castiel’s strength, but close enough to dare it.

Perfect.

Castiel makes as if to attack, a feint, then spreads his wings and flies. Not as fast as he could, but fast enough. He stops halfway around the world, a plain filled with waving grass as dark falls, the other angel jolting back into this plane a second after him.

“Surrender,” the angel demands.

With that word, Castiel recognizes Leliel. Neither subordinate or commander to each other, they had sometimes flown together, before the earth was spoiled, before … “No, brother,” Castiel says, pushing the memory of the two of them flying in concert away. “I will not surrender.”

“The consequence is death,” Leliel says without any regret.

Castiel flies again, as if to escape.

He sees Leliel falter, when they cross into the barn, for the split-second they exist in multiple planes outside of the human one, the planes where sigils burn like fire to the senses; he knows Leliel sees nothing more than a confusing mash, and Leliel doesn’t hesitate to follow Castiel into the deep of it. A mistake Castiel would not have made.

Castiel lands, roughly, ten feet away from Dean. “Now!” he shouts, and as he turns, he sees Dean light the circle.

Leliel flails to a stop, almost tripping over the line of fire from momentum, barely stopping in time.

“What trap is this?” Leliel snarls. “Further dishonor by trickery?”

Castiel sees Dean take a breath as if to answer, then stop himself. Instead, Dean looks at Castiel, backing up quietly. Castiel knows it would not be wise to acknowledge Dean, so he doesn’t.

“I wish to talk,” Castiel says, “nothing more.”

“Talk of what?”

“Leliel … surely you know the truth, that Michael –“

“That does not matter, Castiel. You have disobeyed orders – disobeyed beyond all reckoning, and that is our purpose, to obey. Do you seek to convert me to your cause? Are you so foolish?”

“If I am a fool to wish for your freedom, then I suppose I am a fool.”

Leliel’s gaze is full of disdain. “Release me, and we may be merciful.”

“Your brothers will not find you here,” Castiel assures him.

Leliel doesn’t answer, eyes leaving Castiel to turn and look around. His gaze lights on Dean, making him pause, but there’s no especial meaning there, nothing that Castiel can see. If Dean is particularly being sought after, Leliel does not know it. Leliel was never the most inexpressive, whatever emotions he had rising to the surface to be easily seen. “Why have you brought me here, Castiel?”

“Because you will not win, and I wish to save you.”

“Even now, our garrison marches onward against your fallen angels,” Leliel replies. “It is you who will be destroyed.”

“Indeed?” Castiel lifts an eyebrow, folding his arms.

“Word spread from Michael, that even now the archangel who chose to betray heaven is being tracked.”

Castiel has heard this before. “So Michael has said many times, has he not?”

“You doubt me?”

“I am here, aren’t I? Still free. Do not the truly righteous always prevail, as God intends?”

Leliel scowls. He does not like the reminder of decades of failure – decades and longer, in heaven, time so fleeting in its speed where souls roam. “You have not prevailed.”

“Yet more fall.” Castiel carefully keeps his tone dismissive.

“Do you intend to keep me here?”

“I will free you, eventually,” Castiel replies. “I am not like Michael.”

“Then when you free me, I shall kill you,” Leliel says.

Castiel sees Dean twitch, physically cover his mouth so he won’t speak.

“The truly righteous prevail,” Leliel reminds him.

Castiel smirks, wordlessly.

He sees Leliel flare his wings – an act that always showed his temper – then carefully still them, keeping them inside the circle of holy fire. Then Leliel smiles. “We have tracked your … ‘Scaramouche’, in these human code names you have developed.”

Castiel goes cold, smirk falling like it was never there. There is no way they should know that name. Only Anna and him know it; even the cell leaders did not know it. Oh, the fallen angels brought to ‘Scaramouche’ to make their human bodies appropriate vessels know an archangel made it possible, but the codename was given to a select few. Even Castiel doesn’t think of the archangel’s real name, much less speak it to anyone, like burying it in his head buries it everywhere. “Where did you hear that name?” he snarls, stepping forward, right up to the holy fire, so close it almost burns.

Leliel almost takes a step forward to match him, glances downward at the fire and stops. His brown eyes are filled with certainty now, Castiel’s reaction and its meaning clear. “Release me, and we may be merciful,” he repeats.

“Leliel. You know what Michael will do to us,” Castiel says, and he hears the desperation in his own voice, but cannot stop it. “He will destroy us, kill us all. Do you truly want to see me dead?”

“Since I heard word of your rebellion,” Leliel assures him, calmly. “I have often thought your fate should be the same as your brother Lucifer – the fate of all who are treacherous, the cage in the pit that burns your black wings with the cold of hell.”

Castiel closes his eyes, decision made. “So be it, then.”

“Shall I wait, then, to be released?”

Castiel looks up. “The human man, he prayed to you, told you where I was. He told others as well, didn’t he?”

Leliel cocks his head, and says nothing.

“Dean,” Castiel says. “Break the line.”

Dean hesitates, eyeing the angel as he gets closer, before returning his attention to Castiel. “Are you sure? You won’t question him longer?”

“We don’t have time,” Castiel says. “I think this was a trap for me. If I hadn’t seen …” that human man. If they were smart enough, thought ahead, they would have put a tracker on Leliel. Over time, that tracker would wear through the lines of invisibility around this place, and could be felt if an angel got close enough. It is possible, just barely possible.

Castiel has no certainty that they will win.

“We must leave,” Castiel finishes. He focuses on Leliel again. “Let him go, Dean.”

He can’t quite tell the expression on Dean’s face – he’s too focused on Leliel – but he sees Dean throw water on the holy fire out of the corner of his eye. Leliel watches it extinguish, blade in hand, and his gaze follows Dean as Dean backs up.

Castiel surges forward and stabs Leliel through the neck, Leliel’s blade rising to skim along Castiel’s, but not fast enough to parry.

The last thing Castiel sees before the flash of light is the surprise on Leliel’s face.

Leliel’s body crumples, a black sketch of wings appearing beneath the body.

“Cas, what … ?” Dean looks – not wary. Almost frightened, but quickly hidden. Confusion is primary, their dialogue not quite enough for Dean to understand without memory completely intact. “I thought you weren’t going to kill him.”

“They must not know the extent of our knowledge,” Castiel says, releasing a small breath.

He kneels beside the body, searching it lightly. He finds a talisman, eventually, tucked in a pocket. It looks like nothing more than a pebble, but it glows to Castiel’s eyes. It’s confirmation of the trap Michael’s forces has set, confirmation that they need to leave right now. He throws it away.

“I am like Michael,” Castiel whispers to his dead brother’s silent, unresponsive body.

Scuffing footsteps make Castiel rise, turn away to meet Dean, who, no judgment on his face, offers his hand.

Castiel takes it.

\-----------------------------

Castiel does not take them to the safehouse. He flies randomly, different directions and then backtracking, before he finally pauses in a place he likes but rarely goes. It’s a remote cliff overlooking the sea, far from any village or town, the edge covered with moss, waves hitting jagged rocks below. It’s cool, and he sees Dean shiver as Castiel settles at the edge, pulling his knees up and setting his chin on his knees, and taking a deep breath of the clear air. Again, and again. His chest is tight, hurting, and he thinks he’s probably feeling panic.

Dean sits next to him after a few moments, and at his next shiver, Castiel puts a finger on the rock under him, warms it. Trivial, but Dean gives him a knowing look as Castiel’s hand draws back, as he interlaces his fingers and stares out. He feels strangely exhausted.

“You want to explain what that was about?”

Castiel closes his eyes, sun beating against his eyelids.

“Cas?”

Castiel shakes his head, eyes suddenly hurting, sparking with pain. “You didn’t destroy your family, Dean, but I have destroyed mine.”

“Where do you get that from?” Dean demanded. “Hey! Look at me.”

Castiel does, reluctantly.

There’s only confusion and concern on Dean’s face, which makes Castiel think he doesn’t understand the situation they are now in, how monumentally worse this is from the mere infiltration of a spy. “I think I deserve some answers, Cas,” Dean says, firm and unyielding.

That is true. Dean was unexpectedly passive during the talk with Leliel, and after. A form of faith, or trust, in the language Dean speaks, where actions are more than words.

“I should start at the beginning,” Castiel murmurs, something within loosening as Dean turns him fully, watchful and waiting. His wings suddenly ache, a shadow of former pain.

“Okay,” Dean says cautiously.

“Michael murdered me.”

A second of silence, Dean’s expression almost blank, then, “Well, you’ve recovered magnificently, I’d say.”

Castiel can’t help the short laugh that comes out, sounding strange to his own ears. Dean sits there, looking pleased with himself.

Castiel wonders if that will last. Dean needs to know the entirety of it, the damage done and the damage caused.

“When I found out that our Father wasn’t in heaven, like we all thought He was, I was … horrified. Terrified. It was – a certain angel who told me, in the garden.” Joshua, the keeper of the garden. “I didn’t believe it at first, but he convinced me. I’m not sure why he told me at all.” He’s wondered, often, if this, the network, had been something Joshua had planned, or seen in some way. There’s no way to know – communicating with Joshua was near impossible, and Castiel himself didn’t have the ability. But Joshua remained one of their few links in heaven, a way of knowing if angels would fall.

“Maybe he wanted you to spread the info,” Dean suggests.

Castiel shakes his head, dismissively. That isn’t the point, not right now. “We all always felt Him. Or thought we did, as it faded over time, replaced by Michael. For such an important matter, naturally the first thing I did was go to Michael. I’d spoken to him perhaps twice in millennia. You have to understand, Dean, how separate and above us archangels are. We dared not question them.”

“So what happened?” Dean is intent, watchful, surprisingly calm.

“I told Michael I knew, and asked him why he had not told us. Because if I knew, surely they did. And I said the others should know, my brothers and sisters, so we could find out why we had been abandoned. Why we had been abandoned the same way it seemed humanity once was. And Michael just turned and looked at me, and … tore me apart.”

Dean looks surprised, though Castiel doesn’t know why. “And you died? Are you sure? I mean …” Dean trails off. “Why would he do that? He must have had a reason, right?”

“Any reason I can think of isn’t reason enough,” Castiel replies evenly.

“He didn’t say anything?”

“No,” Castiel says quietly, looking at Dean sideways.

Dean nods, briefly, not questioning. “So you … died.”

“I understand your question,” Castiel says. “I _was_ dead. I know, because I woke up here, on earth, in this body, decades ago. I told you before we make empty vessels. Such a thing wasn’t possible before me, Dean.”

A furrow appears between Dean’s eyebrows. “I don’t understand.”

“The empty vessels we provide are based on this body – this body given to me by God.” Castiel gestures at himself. “Even the archangels themselves were bound to human vessels, special humans of certain bloodlines. They could not create a thing like me, even with all their power. Never before was it possible for an angel to walk on earth without taking a vessel, without taking a human being.”

“So they, the others, look like you?” Dean’s face is scrunched up, confused.

“No, of course not. Male and female, facial features – these are details, ones given at random.”

Dean is silent. Then, “So … God’s not gone?”

Castiel wraps his arms around his knees. “I don’t know. If He is active, it is beyond our understanding where He is and what He does. We find no trace.” He sighs. “I liked to think He intended this, intended for us to grow up without him, much as humanity has. To blunder our way to the true path.”

Dean doesn’t say anything. Castiel watches him, Dean looking out to the sea. He can’t read Dean, but the reaction is calmer than he was expecting. Even for someone like Dean, a hunter, to have the basis of the whole world so tilted from the known … For angels, it was the worst event since Lucifer fell. Worse, perhaps. But maybe for humanity, always at a distance from heaven until death, it is different.

“So that’s why you founded the network?” Dean asks finally, a slight frown on his face, shifting his focus to Castiel.

“I was utterly helpless against Michael. Completely and utterly. Archangels are heaven’s most fearsome weapon, terrifying in their power. I am a seraph, as low to them as a bug is to you. Yet still he killed me, with no warning.” It still hurts, that betrayal. Castiel wonders if it will ever cease. “I worshipped him, not as God, but worship nonetheless.”

He sees Dean take this in, take in the pain Castiel knows is in his voice. It hurt as much as Lucifer falling, that act. A defining act, as much as any fall.

“It made me realize, that if an archangel could commit such an act as murder, then we were not as perfect as we appeared. That Michael could not be trusted to act in the right, that the whole system we lived under for so long was … flawed. I didn’t realize it at first, of course. When I woke, I was merely terrified, uncertain, alone.”

“But that changed?” It’s not a quite a question.

“I found Anna,” Castiel says. Solace, in the one person as outcast as he was. “I knew she’d fallen and become human, of course. We all did. But there was no reason at the time to go after her, though it is a great sin to fall. It was assumed she would get her just punishment when her human body died. She heard me, though, the moment I walked on earth and tried speaking to my brothers and sisters in heaven. I was nearly killed, again, and then I heard her pray to me, as clearly as I speak to you right now.”

Castiel doesn’t expect Dean’s next question.

“Why did you keep dodging this before? Telling me, I mean?” Dean spread his hands. “Why?”

“What would you do if Sam betrayed you?” Castiel questioned. To speak of it again was something Castiel had never really done. Bits and pieces of it came out, across the network, but he’d never spoken of it publicly.

Dean snorts, rubs his face. “He kind of did.”

“How?” Castiel asks, surprised and not understanding. He’d seen nothing to indicate that, seeing Sam as briefly as he did, steadily looking over their father, Dean saying ‘for Sam’ before Castiel took him away.

“College,” Dean says. “Wanted to leave us and the life behind. After everything, he just -” He looks at Castiel. “Not quite the same thing as murder, I know, trust me.” He shrugs awkwardly, looking discomfited, like he shouldn’t have spoken.

“But it mattered to you.” A much smaller echo of Michael’s actions, but Castiel understands.

Dean purses his lips for a second. “Yeah.”

“And so it did to me. I did not want to speak of it, to speak the words would be to remember.”

Dean’s mouth falls open, lips parted slightly, but he doesn’t speak.

Castiel studies him a moment longer, then listens to the sea, waiting for the next words to come, knowing he must speak them, make Dean understand what Castiel has caused. The evil he has done, unwittingly. “It’s my fault, Dean.”

“What?”

“All the deaths that have happened. If I had just …”

“Just what? You said it yourself, God brought you back, right?”

“But –“

“Dude, you didn’t want to follow a murderer. You _had_ to escape.” Dean grabs Castiel by the arm, as if seizing him physically would make some difference in how Castiel felt. The touch is warm, certain, and unexpected.

“But the rest? That was me, Dean. All my choice, all my actions,” and Dean’s touch is warm, transforming to a hold on his wrist.

“And a shit load of people followed you of their own free will,” Dean counters, Castiel staring at where they touch.

“People I will get killed!” Castiel surges to his feet, breaking Dean’s hold. “The code name, Dean, is our archangel. The only one we have, the one that keeps us going, the one who helps the fallen adjust to their human bodies, the one who connects us to heaven again, the one who makes empty vessels for those like me. If he dies, we are lost. The rest of us will be hunted down, eventually, and killed. I will have _killed_ my family, Dean.”

“Hey, they made their choice to follow – not even to follow you, you said it yourself. You said that – that doing the right thing when you don’t have to is what you were supposed to learn, right?”

Castiel shakes his head. “I don’t know if that’s true. Right prevails, and if they have that code name, then … then the network can be torn apart. It’s been compromised too badly.” He swallows. “It’s over.” He slumps, shoulders loose, then runs both hands through his hair.

“Uh-uh,” Dean says, rising to his feet. “You can’t just give up!”

“What am I supposed to do?” Castiel shouts.

“Fight!”

“How? How, Dean?” He leans in close, snarling right in Dean’s face.

“Cas,” and he grabs Castiel by the shoulders. “You’re not alone, okay?”

There’s something about that contact. Something familiar and yet so totally new, Dean close to him and the doomed network so far away. He couldn’t concentrate, Dean and visions of a horrific future battling in his head. He breathes deeply, not looking at Dean, focuses on the immediate. Dean’s hands, clenching hard enough to bruise, if Castiel were human, are a strangely reassuring contact, and he wants to lean into it. “What am I supposed to do?” Castiel whispers, at last.

Dean’s gaze is distant for a second. “We warn them.”

“I can’t. I don’t see Anna for weeks, it will be too late by then. Michael will move fast, I don’t doubt it.”

Dean waves a hand, the movement sharp. “Some other way, then. There must be some way to tell everyone to scatter, that they’ve compromised. I mean, you guys can hide from each other. Obviously. Can’t you tell everyone to do that?”

“If there was some way to warn them, yes.” Castiel pauses. “But we couldn’t contact each other again, or I don’t see how. There’s a way, a code we all know, for the worst case scenario, but I don’t have the ability to spread it.” He tilts his head. “Technically, only Anna and the archangel do.”

“We have to try.” Dean’s tense, eyes half-closed as he thinks. “You said before that cells knew more about each other than they should, right? What if we used that weakness to our advantage? Once the message is given, won’t it spread, even if some of them are spies? I mean, you don’t think there’s more than one spy, do you?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel says. “If Michael got one through, he could have gotten more. Maybe he was patient. We’ve stopped angels from joining the network before, though not often.”

“Rejects?” Dean asks. “How many?”

“I don’t know the exact number, only those I dealt with,” Castiel says. “Why?”

“If they’re still on earth, wouldn’t that indicate they’re not spies? Depending on how long they’ve been around?” Dean frowns, suddenly. “They’d be in humans, though, wouldn’t they?”

“I don’t think our ‘rejects’ are any more trustworthy than those already in the network,” Castiel says. “We keep tabs on them afterwards, and most disappear or we learn they return to heaven.” He sighs, thinks. “But you are correct. Realistically, it is win-win to warn whoever we can. Regardless of who the spy is, whoever they know are already targets. For the others, it may allow them to disappear before Michael’s forces go down, before they find the archangel or Anna. Perhaps even the message will reach them, I don’t know.”

“Well, then we start with the network,” Dean says. “Better than nothing, right?”

“I meet with my cell in three days,” Castiel confirms.

“Sounds like a plan,” Dean says with a quick nod.

“Not much of one,” Castiel mutters, Dean’s energy that had bolstered his own fading. “This could easily get many killed, and it would take the network decades to recover.”

“You got another idea?”

“No,” Castiel admits.

“We meet with your cell. Start there.” Dean’s insistent, but he waits for Castiel’s reply.

“Two of the three are under suspicion, Dean.”

“I’m willing to take that risk. Are you?”

Castiel turns away. “That was never in question.” He would sacrifice himself willingly to stop this, if he could. But there’s Dean to consider. When Dean says nothing, he continues, “But we can start with support personnel I know, if they’re still in place.”

“People not on the list?”

“Not the one you saw.”

“Fair enough.”

Castiel nods, embarrassed for the weakness he’s shown. But Dean didn’t seem to mind, just addressed it simply. He expects Dean to say something, but again, he doesn’t. As if he knows Castiel doesn’t want words, not right now. Only the need to act remains, the only change possible. “I – thank you, Dean.”

Dean flashes a smile. “What are friends for?”

“This, apparently.”

Dean cocks his head. “Was that a joke? From you?” When Castiel just blinks, Dean waves a hand. “Never mind. Why don’t we get started?”

\-----------------------------

Castiel knows of four others not in cells, serving support positions. Two are like Justine, but for other cell leaders. Castiel is somewhat unusual that he knows of so many who do the same thing, as that is usually not the case for security reasons, but it works to their benefit here. Not a situation he’d really imagined he would have, and certainly not with company. One of the other two kept track of network finances, and the second kept track of about half of the fallen angels who did not regain their grace.

All save for the last they visit are still alive.

Omeriel, the one who kept track of those fallen without grace, managed to destroy all records of those under her care.

Dean kneels next to the body as Castiel examines the computers and papers, the hard drives smashed and the papers not much more than burned remnants in the fireplace of the house, tucked away in a suburban neighborhood.

“Looks like she died recently,” Dean says. “This body isn’t more than a day old.”

Castiel turns, steps carefully around the shadow of her wings and goes to his knees beside Omeriel. She has a single stab wound in her chest, clearly the mark of an angel’s blade, and her open eyes stare sightlessly, expression lax. But Castiel knew her, knows she fought hard. He wants to say that, tell Dean, but there’s a lump in his throat, grief and guilt mingled.

“They didn’t get anything from her,” Castiel says at last. “But this does tell us something more. It narrows down the list of the spy.”

Dean almost speaks, stops, and then says carefully, “What, you carrying that list around in your head?”

“I’ve thought of little else,” Castiel replies. Except Dean. “But she was not included in the list, as I said. I don’t know her assignments. If Anna … if Anna meets us, however, it will help.”

“Can we bury her?”

“Yes,” Castiel says. “We should bury her with her family.”

Dean looks at him, eyebrows raised.

“Her human family,” Castiel explains. “They all died some years ago, as I understand.”

“Oh. You do that?”

“When possible,” Castiel says. “Are you ready?”

Dean’s gaze shifts to Omeriel. “Yes.”

Castiel shifts them hundreds of miles away. Omeriel’s family, her immediate family, have all died. She’d been adopted by a large family, most of her siblings also adopted, and it had torn her family for her to be forced to leave. Castiel knows this because he was there. She was one the earliest to fall after the creation of the network, and so both he and Anna knew Omeriel quite well. She’d been an active cell leader for years, before changing to a different line of work, one that allowed her to live a more human life.

Castiel takes them to the graveyard. It’s day, of course, but Castiel doesn’t particularly expect to be found. Only family members of those already interned are buried here. He finds the empty spot, next to her adopted parents, an old oak tree overhanging it, bare limbs providing no shadow.

“They left a place for her?”

“Yes.”

“Creepy,” Dean comments. “What? I didn’t mean it that way.”

Castiel shakes his head, not looking at him.

It doesn’t take them long to bury the body. Castiel does not tire, and he takes a stone from the cliff he and Dean had spoken on, for her gravestone. Nothing here can be traced. Perhaps too extensive of a precaution, with her dead and most of her family, but Castiel sees no reason to take chances. To his surprise, Dean is quiet through the process, casting watchful glances his way now and then, but apparently content to work in silence.

Dean keeps that silence until they are ready to leave. “You said it yourself, Cas. You didn’t know – you didn’t know this would happen. You told me not to blame myself, can’t you do the same?”

It doesn’t sound as convincing coming out of Dean’s mouth as it did from his own. Somehow, the not quite patient look on Dean’s face tells Castiel Dean suspects as much.

“I don’t think it’s that simple,” Castiel says.

“No,” Dean replies with a forced calmness, “it isn’t.”

Castiel can’t bring himself to answer, staring at Omeriel’s grave, the dark mound of dirt. An immortal being, one who should never have died.

“Let’s go home,” Dean says, softly. Strangely softly, as if he can tell what’s going through Castiel’s head. Maybe he can.

“Yes,” Castiel says.

\-----------------------------

The three survivors are busy, Castiel knows, spreading the message. The two assigned to cell leaders will reach eight or nine of them, which is about half of the active cells. The one who worked in finance agreed to reach all the non-active members he could. There’s not much he and Dean can do, until they see Castiel’s cell. Castiel doesn’t know how to contact the other cell leaders, though he knows in general terms where they should be, it’s not specific enough. A structure designed to protect them, which it may, if none of theirs are the spy. Castiel knows the members of his cell may know the location, or means of contact, for some of the other cells’ members.

Still, Castiel has attempted to use the knowledge of Omeriel’s death combined with the information he does have – both what Anna gave him and what he knows independently. He’s covered one wall with his maps and names and faces, and muses that it’s a good thing only he knows where this safehouse is. Except Dean. But the chances of Dean being the spy are slim, far too slim to be a worry. Even if he is, there’s not enough information here for Michael to go after them, Castiel’s own lack of knowledge a blessing and curse.

He traces the lines, stretched across pieces of paper, some ink still fresh, staining his fingertips. His personal knowledge narrowed the list down to seventeen. Better, but still too many. Unfortunately, Wynn and Balthazar are still on the suspect list, so it makes the meeting still a danger.

Castiel hears the water turn off. It was a good idea to have fully running water. He’d never have predicted being in a situation like he is with Dean, for this length of time.

He hears the door open, and turns. Dean has pulled on sweatpants (ones Castiel bought, and he’s pleased to note they fit) but no shirt. For a second, Castiel finds the view arresting, then jerks himself out of it.

He eyes Dean clinically instead. “You don’t have an anti-possession tattoo,” he observes.

“What?”

“A mark to prevent possession by demons,” Castiel adds.

Dean frowns. “Didn’t know there was such a thing,” Dean says. At Castiel’s look, he continues, “Dad always kept us off any demonic hunts. Why, am I in danger of being possessed?”

“No,” Castiel replies. Angels, even fallen ones, can’t be possessed; too much of a holy mark remains, similar to consecrated ground being difficult for demons to walk on. They would be able to enter, but unable to remain in the body for any extended period. “It’s just common among hunters.”

Dean jerks his chin in the direction of the covered wall. “You gonna work on that all night or rest?”

“I don’t need rest,” Castiel says. “But I will stop while you sleep, if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“You do a lot of things you don’t need to,” Dean points out. “Why not sleep?”

“Why sleep?”

“Oh, don’t play that game with me,” Dean says. “Sleep is awesome. Like food.”

“Why is it you insist on me picking up these human habits?”

“It’s about enjoying life’s small pleasures, Cas. Don’t you ever do that?”

“Not really, no.”

“Yeah, well, you should. Seeing the crap I do every hunt, things like this? Remind me why it’s worth it.” Dean walks over to the bed, plops himself on it without looking to see it’s there. “Besides, you got a pretty good bed.”

“You want me to sleep with you?”

Dean stares, then laughs. “You have no idea what you just said, do you?”

Castiel is puzzled. “What?”

Dean sits up, smile half-fading, the amusement steady. “You have been going for what, a week solid now? And don’t think I don’t notice how tired you look. You might not need sleep, but you’re – you’re emotional and at your wit’s end.” He points at Castiel, expression stern. “Don’t try and tell me you’re not.”

Castiel bites the inside of his lip. “I doubt sleeping will help.”

“Have you tried?”

“You know very well I haven’t,” Castiel says, exasperated.

Dean folds his arms.

Castiel frowns. “I don’t know how you convince me to do these things.” Somehow, they all seem so reasonable coming out of Dean’s mouth. Maybe because they are, but that’s not the entirety of it, Castiel thinks.

Dean replies by scooting backwards, leaving an empty space on the bed. Castiel turns all the lights off but one, leaving a small lamp in the kitchen on, the others controlled by the single switch. The room falls into almost complete darkness.

When Castiel toes of his sneakers and lays down, Dean murmurs, “Maybe because you want to do them, really.”

Castiel twists his head around to look at him.

Dean smiles, probably innocently. “I’d joke about you compromising my virtue, but I think I’m safe sleeping in the same bed as an angel.”

Wanting nothing more than to poke at Dean the way Dean does at him, Castiel says, “Sex isn’t forbidden to us, you know.”

“What about with each other?”

“What difference would that make?” Castiel says, turning away and determinedly closing his eyes, head resting on his hands. He’s not sure if he can actually fall asleep, knows for humans it’s a necessary ritual, but angels don’t relax in the same way, don’t require the mental silence. Or the mental chaos, knowing what he does of human dreaming.

“Good to know,” he hears Dean mutter.

He hears Dean shifting, feels the bed move slightly. They aren’t touching – the bed is plenty large, he picked the biggest one he could find, though in truth in the past several years he’s gotten more use out of the wood floor he put together. He represses the sigh he feels, listens to Dean’s breathing instead. He can tell from the irregularity that Dean isn’t sleeping yet. Based on previous nights, it will take him around twenty-two minutes to fall asleep. For some reason, that now feels like an eternity to wait silently.

Of course, this night is different from the others. He knows, truly, how much danger the network is in now. There’s nothing he can do about it now, and Dean no doubt knows this, but stillness nevertheless grates. Dean and the network battle for attention in his head; Dean close, and the network far away.

He opens his eyes and looks at the wall, nearly opposite the bed, where all his maps and notes are.

“Cas,” Dean says, voice hoarse. “Turn around. I know what you’re staring at.”

“How –“

“Must be fallen angel senses,” Dean jokes.

Could be, Castiel supposes. He turns around in bed. “What makes you think I’ll sleep better looking at you?”

“I don’t think that,” Dean says, “I just think you’ll sleep better if you don’t stare at that wall you’ve been obsessing over. Pointlessly, I might add.”

“It isn’t pointless,” Castiel snaps out, glaring.

Dean raises a hand in defeat. “Granted. But relax, okay? Nothing to do until tomorrow, at least.”

Castiel lets loose the waiting sigh and closes his eyes, again.

Some minutes pass, Castiel’s mind still turning the information he has over and over.

“All that thinking is keeping me awake,” Dean whispers.

“Why are you whispering?”

Dean raises his voice to normal. “Because you’re supposed to be asleep, idiot.”

Castiel's eyes snap open, annoyed.

Dean raises a finger. “Nope. Eyes closed.”

Reluctantly, Castiel obeys.

Then Dean begins to speak. He starts with a story about Sam at six, always getting into trouble, like the time they almost set their short-term apartment on fire, or the time they almost had social services called on them because a neighbor saw their father training them, or when Sam tried to bring a girlfriend home and their father happened to be cleaning all their guns. In between the stories, Castiel hears the truth: a childhood with Dean and Sam, and Sam and Dean, and very little else. A father who wasn’t there often, but loved his children intensely. Dean speaks of it, a life of training and taking care of Sam, in a positive light, but something about the tone, nearly hidden in the soft whispering, says it wasn’t all that easy. Dean’s voice fades in the middle of a story, as he drifts off.

As he goes to sleep, Castiel is suddenly struck by a clear thought, fierce and absolute as lightning: Dean understands. Family is what you have. Perhaps Castiel, too, is family – fighting and hard and difficult, but that fits so well with what a family of angels is.

Then he begins to drift, mind calming, consciousness slowing.

It’s quiet.

\-----------------------------

Castiel is warm and comfortable. It’s not at all like heaven, where everything is perfect, perfect sensation, perfect brotherhood, none of which is really perfect. He’s warm, and a bit too warm, almost sweating lightly, and one arm is trapped beneath his body, not going numb because the force of grace is too powerful for even that small weakness, but heavy and weighted upon nonetheless. He’s not dreaming, but not awake. Drifting in silence.

Then it’s like when he awoke from unconsciousness, in the priest’s house.

There’s that moment of uncertainty, his body not quite under control, eyes opening, but this time he feels something under him shift. His vision is blurry for a second, then he realizes he’s touching warm skin.

And there’s Dean, arm above his head, Castiel curled into that side. He has one arm wrapped around Dean’s waist, he notices, lifting his head.

“Dude, did you just drool on me?” Dean blinks his eyes open, looks sleepily outraged.

“I apologize,” Castiel says stiffly, wiping his mouth and getting up quickly, stumbling over the warm sheets, backing up, not stopping until he’s several feet from the bed. “I don’t know how that happened.”

Dean continues looking at him, rubbing his face, which has the imprint of a wrinkled pillowcase. “I don’t know how you –“ He stops, looking intently at Castiel.

“What?” Castiel asks uneasily.

“Happens,” Dean says shortly, bounding to his feet and pushing past Castiel. “People move in their sleep, but the drool, that is disgusting!” Dean calls out, and shuts the bathroom door.

To take a shower, presumably. Castiel wipes at his mouth again, but it’s dry.

He carefully lets out an even breath, disregarding how ridiculous he feels. He sits on a chair, one of the two, and stares at the half-destroyed table, while he hears the water turn on, the pipes he laid in place so many years ago clinking. Castiel waits for a minute, then gets up and returns to the covered wall. There’s nothing new, no new conclusions, but he goes over it again, just in case.

After some time, he hears Dean leave the bathroom. Then walk up behind Castiel.

Dean leans in, and sniffs. Castiel draws back slightly, focusing on Dean now, wondering what he’s doing.

“I can’t believe it,” Dean says. “You don’t smell bad at all. And you never take a shower?”

“No.”

“Angel,” Dean grumbles, withdrawing.

“As you are,” Castiel retorts, knowing there’s an insult in there somewhere.

Dean just laughs. It fades after a second, though.

“Let’s go out to eat,” Dean says. “I mean, it’s morning, right? I can’t tell.” Gestures at the solid walls.

“It’s morning,” Castiel confirms.

“Oh man, don’t tell me you want to spend the whole day stuck in here? I mean, I get it’s safe, but there aren’t any windows. Or doors. Or television.”

“We can’t go anywhere you know,” Castiel says. “There’s too much risk of being found, since Michael’s forces are using human agents.”

“Wait, _human_ agents?”

“Yes,” Castiel says. “They tracked us after that bar we went to. That’s how Leliel found us.”

“When were you going to tell me this?”

“When it was relevant.”

“I think it’s been relevant since you knew about it!”

“It was a suspicion until Leliel,” Castiel points out.

“That leaves a whole fucking day!”

Castiel steps forward, into Dean’s space. “If I don’t tell you something, I have a reason for it.”

“The reason being?”

“It doesn’t change our situation, save for making it more imperative you never contact your family, or go anywhere you know.”

“Ever again, is what you’re saying.” Dean folds his arms, doesn’t back up.

“That was always the case, Dean. In fact, what does this knowledge change, from what I have already told you?”

Dean clenches his fist, half-raises it, then turns away, probably remembering how useless that would be.

“You’ve been trying not to think of them,” Castiel says, understanding. “I am sorry, Dean. That was part of why I didn’t mention it.”

“Big fat help,” Dean says. Castiel sees a muscle in Dean’s jaw jump, then Dean’s even gaze focuses on him. “What exactly is the plan? For the meet with your cell?”

“Scout out the area first. If that’s clean, you stay out of sight,” Castiel replies, letting Dean change the topic.

“Right. And you just decided this?”

“I don’t want to argue,” Castiel says.

“Cas –“

“No, Dean.”

“But –“

“Dean, I have done many things that you requested. I am not asking for your permission or anything else. You will stay out of sight until I say so.”

“And I’m supposed to follow your orders, huh?”

Castiel takes another step closer, fully aware how uncomfortable it makes Dean. “Yes.”

He expects Dean to pick up the argument, but he doesn’t. “Fine.” Flatly and his eyes full of challenge, but there’s enough acquiescence there for Castiel.

Castiel adds, “I think I’m familiar enough with your eating habits to choose something you’ll like.”

Dean mouth drops open, his eyes widen, and Castiel can’t figure out why he’s surprised.

Then Dean speaks. “What is it with you? I feel like … I feel like half the time – more than half – you’re doing this elaborate dance around me, trying to figure me out, trying to figure out what I want. Why do you care?”

“Why shouldn’t I care? You think I feel nothing for you?” Because there is a great deal more than nothing. Dean, there at the beginning; Dean, there at the end – the network compromised; Dean, right here, right now, and Castiel resists the urge to touch him.

“I don’t want to talk about my _feelings_ , Cas!”

“Should I talk about mine?” It’s a genuine question, and it makes Dean seem more unsettled than when Castiel told him the truth about his identity.

“No. Um, no. Let’s not.”

But maybe Dean needs to. “I do care for you, Dean. And … we understand each other, don’t we?”

“Yeah,” Dean admits. “Weirdly enough, I guess.” That hint of humor again, so unusual, to take things and see them from a perspective capable of that.

“You do the same to me, Dean. The food, sleeping, these are your marks.”

“And figuring out what I like to wear and eat is yours?”

“I would hardly say that is the entire substance of it, but yes.” Family, Dean’s, the network, them.

Dean eyes him, and Castiel can’t figure out the meaning of his expression. “I haven’t exactly had someone do that for me before. It’s weird.”

“Is there a need to question it?”

Dean doesn’t answer for a long second. “Let’s eat,” he says, and Castiel has the feeling that’s not what he intended to say. “You know what I like, right? So let’s poof off.” Bright, fake smile.

Castiel doesn’t believe it, but then he doesn’t think Dean expects him to do so. “Very well.”

He takes a second to decide where to go, then moves them both, wing swift.

Balthazar brought Castiel here once, years ago. It’s a small place in a small town in Wyoming, with regulars from the surrounding areas – a lot of farms – consisting most of the clientele. It serves American food, and is, from what Castiel understood from Balthazar, quite tasty. Castiel himself didn’t eat anything, despite Balthazar’s best efforts. He knows that Balthazar probably doesn’t even remember this place, so he has no fear of being here, and the fact that it is so remote means the possibility of a human spy is practically nil.

Dean’s smile, when they enter and see the black and white checkered floor, the red vinyl seats in the booths, the waitress in a uniform of some kind, is real. Dean’s glance at Castiel is so fast he almost misses it, almost misses the fact that yes, he did nail what Dean likes.

Dean orders for both of them, two cheeseburgers with a side of fries, two chocolate shakes.

Castiel knows what is expected of him, and when they receive the shakes almost immediately, he takes a sip, aware Dean is watching him.

“Well?” Dean prompts.

Castiel rolls his tongue in his mouth. “Cold.”

“Besides that.”

Castiel picks up the shake from the table. “Is that what chocolate tastes like?”

“Cas!”

“It’s good,” Castiel says, not quite smiling.

Dean squints at him as if pondering his motives, then starts sucking up his own shake. Dean remains silent, apparently willing to let the time pass without any conversation, except a quick ‘Thank you’ and flirty smile when the rest of their meal is brought.

Castiel is distracted by the burger, after that. It keeps wanting to come apart, the meat sliding out between the buns, the cheese the only thing sticking it together, and lettuce and tomato falling out every time he tries to bring it to this mouth. He attempts, probably gracelessly, to keep the burger level while he takes bites out of it. But he finally ends up eating it in pieces with his fingers, looking up at Dean. Dean starts, as if surprised, then begins eating his own burger, far more neatly than Castiel managed.

It’s messy, Castiel decides, but tastes good as far as food is concerned. When the burger is gone, he sucks his fingers to clean them, and hears Dean choke. He finds Dean drinking what’s left of the shake, looking out the window. That lasts several minutes, Dean either ignoring or not aware of Castiel.

His expression slowly changes, to look disturbed, picking up the burger but not eating.

“What is it?”

Dean sets the burger down. “I just realized … this is my life now. Eating in random places, always running, always hiding, always … stuck with you.” Then he stops himself. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

Castiel isn’t insulted. “Normally, you would have some choice of where you go, or have a place to live, but it’s just too dangerous. Especially with the interest shown in you. You need to be with one of us, even if it’s not me.”

“You’re not talking about dumping me with someone else again, are you?”

“No, Dean, I’m not.”

The set of Dean’s shoulders relaxes, and he picks up the burger again. “Right. Well, for what it’s worth, I’m glad I got stuck with you.”

“I feel the same.”

Dean finishes his burger, moves onto the fries, popping one in at a time. “What happens after me meet with your cell?”

“Nothing, for a few weeks, until the meet with Anna. Unless something unexpected happens when we meet with my cell.”

“What are they like? The others, I mean?”

“Different than me, mostly,” Castiel says. “I am ill-adapted to this world, it often seems. Customary human behavior is usually baffling.”

Dean eats another fry, half-smiling. “So they’re more human?”

“Perhaps just less awkward.”

Dean nods. “I dunno, you seem pretty human to me,” Dean says. “Which I don’t mean as an insult.”

“In what way?”

“Love, grief, all that crap. Your family driving everything you are. Any of this sounding familiar?”

Castiel frowns. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Though I have to say, a lot of them sound like dicks. The network being the exception rather than the rule, I mean.”

“I still love them,” Castiel says with a slight edge.

“They’re your family, as fucked up as they are. Trust me, I get that.”

Castiel looks at Dean, and sees nothing but honesty there.

“I’m sorry they’re trying to kill you,” Dean says.

“I’m sorry they’re trying to kill _you_ ,” Castiel replies.

“Yeah, well, they’re not going to win. Not going to kill either of us, right? We’ll find that mole and life on earth will go merrily along.”

Castiel gives him a sideways look.

“Or we die, and … we die.” Dean shrugs. “But hey, at least we tried, right? If God still is around somewhere, I guess He’d know that.”

“He would,” Castiel agrees softly. He looks down at his hands, this human body the marvelous work of God. He’d hated it, at first, being here, being in this body, but he’d begun to see why God had created it so, the sensations, the emotions bound to the physical plane, the importance of a touch so much more grounding than a brush of grace. It had its equal ills, of course, but Castiel rarely experienced those.

But the ones who had fallen – none of them regretted it. Castiel cannot help but think of that, and mark that as important.

“Cas?”

“I wonder what I would have been like, if I’d fallen,” Castiel says.

“I bet you’d be the same.”

“You think so?” Castiel asks, tilting his head curiously. “Why?”

“Can’t imagine you otherwise.” Dean pauses, then asks, “Are they that different, the ones you knew before they fell?”

Castiel thinks of Anna. As his superior in heaven, she’d been strong, unwavering. Every movement forward certain, and he supposed her fall was the same way. She didn’t harbor doubts, none that he’d ever seen. She’d simply looked down upon earth one day, and made the decision. But becoming human had softened her, made her smile more, made her reach out and feel. Castiel wonders if that’s something he lacks, then. Reaching out. He looks at Dean. “In some ways. Anna changed – that was very clear to me since the beginning.”

“So how did she change?” Dean interrupts his thoughts, focusing on Castiel in an odd way.

“She became more open,” Castiel says. “As my superior, she was … solid, sure of herself. And now she laughs.” It’s incomplete, awkward, but the only way Castiel can express it. “I think a lot of them change in that way, become more open.”

“Can’t you choose to do the things she does? I mean, the ways she’s changed? You don’t have to fall.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way.” Falling being something that just happened to you, once you make the decision the rest is fate, a race through fire that molds you into something else. But to choose? Castiel had never done that. He’d never seen the need. Or felt the desire, to be something other than what he already is. His identity is the same as it ever was, his choice to dedicate himself to his family. The rest was never given much consideration. He hears Dean breathing, waits.

Dean leans back into the booth, throws one arm over it, thoughtful. “I wonder if I was a dick.”

“You aren’t one now,” Castiel points out.

“Aw, Cas, you say the sweetest things!” But Dean’s smile isn’t genuine.

“Whatever you were, you chose to be otherwise,” Castiel says.

“Yeah, maybe,” Dean says, pushing the empty plate in front of him. “You said you were going to scout out the meeting place first, right?”

“By myself,” Castiel says pointedly, allowing the change in topic.

“Where will I be, then? I’m not staying in the safehouse.”

Castiel considers this. Dean is not capable of leaving the safehouse on his own. In truth, leaving Dean there at all is risky, if Castiel is caught somehow while making a grocery run or some other activity.

“There’s no way out, Cas. What would I do if you didn’t return?” Dean raises an eyebrow.

“I will have to leave you somewhere else, then,” Castiel says. “Somewhere remote so you won’t be seen, but not so remote you are unable to leave the area.”

“Well, all the places I know are out,” Dean says.

“Somewhere with cell service,” Castiel adds.

“So I can call that number? Who’s on the other line, anyway?”

“Not that number, not anymore. It was Omeriel’s.”

“Oh,” Dean says in a subdued tone.

“A cell phone for calling human agencies, if it comes to that. But your location should be remote, like I said. I will leave you with plenty of cash, and the location of another safehouse. I don’t know if it’s being used, but if is, they will recognize you for what you are, and assist you. If nothing else, however, the safehouse will provide shelter while you are on your own.” Theoretically, he could send Dean to the meet with Anna in his stead, but that is equally as dangerous, for both of them.

“So basically, if you die, I’m screwed.”

“If I die, you will use our resources to disappear,” Castiel says. “But I don’t intend on dying, and I don’t believe the meet tomorrow will go badly.”

“Why do you think that?”

“God is with us,” Castiel says. “As you pointed out.”

“Not exactly what I said,” Dean says dryly.

“But what you meant.”

Dean’s eyes narrow briefly, but his head dips for a second. “Just trying to make you feel better.”

“My attempts at comfort have never been lies, and neither have yours.”

“Not the entire truth, though, are they?”

“Yes, they are.”

Dean snorts. “Sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

“Not always.”

Dean smiles. Castiel isn’t sure why, they have just had half of an argument. But then, there are definitely things that Dean does that mystifies him. Then there are others that make perfect sense, pieces of each other that echo. A similarity and a contrast all in one.

“I’m done,” Dean says. “You ready to go?”

“Yes.”

Castiel pays, and when they walk outside, Dean looks up the sun, then at Castiel. It occurs to Castiel, suddenly, that this is the first time he’s really seen Dean be comfortable with Castiel about to fly him somewhere. He takes Castiel’s hand without hesitation, and Castiel flies them away.

\-----------------------------

There’s still a day left before Castiel needs to go and scout out the area. They spend it in Castiel’s safehouse, like before. Dean complains of no television, but even if Castiel bought one, there’s no reception here, so instead Castiel allows Dean to ask various questions about the network. He tells Dean of some missions that are entirely inconsequential, but interesting to someone who knows nothing of it, one who does not remember angelic life.

In between that, Dean, having nothing to do, broods.

Castiel sees it, and wants to do something to help him, but doesn’t know how to accomplish that. Castiel’s accustomed to silence, to being alone, to waiting, but it grates on Dean more than danger does. They do not talk about tomorrow, or about the meet, and Castiel’s silently thankful for that, because he has a feeling Dean is just waiting to wear him down on something.

“I know you miss Sam,” Castiel hesitantly offers, Dean sitting on the bed, Castiel going over his maps. Because it always Sam, there on Dean’s mind. He knows from what Dean spoke before that he as a strong relationship with his brother, and to have it cut off so abruptly and completely – it must hurt.

“Can you? Really?” Dean raises his gaze, not quite accusing, more curious.

“I have killed my brothers and sisters, Dean, and left many others behind – perhaps forever. I am well acquainted with loss.”

Dean’s silent, looking away, apparently considering Castiel’s words. “I don’t know, Cas. I don’t know if I can ever accept being away from Sam forever.”

“Then can you at least accept staying with me? With us? We’re your family, too, Dean.”

Dean nods, smiles sadly. “Yes. You are. _You_ are.”

Something about this statement pleases Castiel more than he thinks it should.

Night falls, Dean sleeps, and Castiel waits.

\-----------------------------

He leaves Dean in a summer house in Montana. It’s fully stocked, a road leading up the house with miles of plains around it. It’s not part of the network’s real estate, but Castiel knows it will be empty. (A family he’d stumbled upon years ago while hunting a demon. They didn’t exactly get along, but Castiel knows they will never return to this particular place from the experience.)

Castiel appears under a tree. He looks around, but there’s no startled or disbelieving expressions, so he hasn’t been noticed. The grass underneath his feet crackles when he moves, yellow and dried with spots of green.

The meet is outside of Los Angeles. Suburban that’s almost urban, there’s enough people there to provide anonymity, not too many that they will have no privacy when they speak. It was decided upon on the assumption that no humans would understand their conversation, a fact that is no longer certain, with the discovery of Leliel’s human spy. But Castiel had no way of knowing that when he set the place, and he imagines Ceria, Wynn and Balthazar aren’t aware of it either.

Castiel sits on a bench, elbows on knees, hands clasped, and watches the scenery go by. It’s out in the open, so it’s easy to see that there’s no traps laid like the ones he made at the barn. He watches the people go by, notes the ones that linger, what they’re doing and what they’re looking at, but he sees nothing unusual. There’s no attention paid to him by anyone.

The park is medium-sized. Large enough to have a few fields for sports, a central walkway, where Castiel is, a small recreation center in a building off to one extreme, the parking lot on the other. It’s cold, and the few people he sees are all wearing coats or heavy jackets. (The joke often goes that angels are obvious by their inappropriate dress for the weather.) He waits, patiently, as the hours pass, and slowly begins to relax.

The meet doesn’t look compromised, as Castiel is well aware of standard operating procedure for Michael’s forces when it comes to intercepting meets. So it’s not compromised so long as that remains the same, which Castiel has no choice but to assume, or abandon the meet. In addition, the possibility exists that one of his cell is the spy, and when the spy arrives, others could as well. So Dean must still stay out of sight, possibly out of the area entirely.

Or, it could be safer to change the location once they’ve all met, and no attack has occurred. Castiel thinks the chances of a spy not taking the opportunity to get Castiel and the others is low, so the period of waiting should be fairly definitive. That would also swiftly deal with the problem of human agents, incapable of following angelic flight.

Yes, that works.

Castiel gets up from the bench, starts meandering down the concrete pathways. He stretches out, but as when he first chose this place as an emergency meet, there’s nothing supernatural here.

He sees a woman walking a dog, and as he passes, the dog tries to turn around and follow Castiel, whining when the woman impatiently drags the dog away.

By the time the woman looks up, Castiel’s gone.

\-----------------------------

  
   
He doesn’t go straight to Dean. Instead, Castiel stops outside of the summer house, miles away, in a barren plain, two-lane roads crisscrossing the area. Something is off. Instinct prickles, telling Castiel there’s danger here. He stretches out his senses, and almost immediately catches sight of another angel. Not close, and not that powerful. Castiel debates confronting the angel for a moment. If he does, he will know for certain it is one of the network. He might also find out if the angel being here is matter of luck or something or someone being compromised.

But he can’t imagine how. Castiel stands still, fingers twitching. There’s no need to confirm for the angel that their information is correct, if that is indeed the case. And Dean might already be in danger.

He flies forward, landing in the living room, where Dean is lounging on a couch, watching a television set mounted above the fireplace. Dean jumps up as soon as Castiel appears.

“What is it? What happened?”

“This location has been compromised,” Castiel answers. He takes out his cell and smashes it beneath his heel.

After a second of hesitation, Dean does the same with the cell phone Castiel had provided. “Is that how they found us?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel says, even as he grabs Dean by the arm and moves them hundreds of miles away, back to Castiel’s safehouse.

Dean almost sways, taken off guard by the quick move.

“I might be paranoid,” Castiel finishes. “I saw another angel there, but I don’t know if it was part of a search effort or not. If it was, though, the cell phones are the only way I can think we could have been found.”

“Does this affect the meet?”

“No,” Castiel says. “It’s probably not related. Though it does leave the question of where you should be when the meet occurs.”

“With you,” Dean says immediately.

“No.” Castiel shakes his head. “Too dangerous.”

“’C’mon.” An unattractive whine enters Dean’s voice.

Castiel scowls. “We’ll discuss it in the morning.” The cell meet is midmorning. Less time for Dean to argue or wear Castiel down. Castiel is starting to understand his own reactions, Dean’s relentless attempts to be in on the action best swayed by avoidance.

Dean looks skeptical but, to Castiel’s relief, says nothing.

\-----------------------------

Castiel can see in the absolute darkness. Dean’s mouth is parted, his breathing audible, eyes shifting under the lids, the sign of a deep dream state. One arm lies by his side, the other resting on his stomach, and he has the blanket pulled up to his chest, though it’s not cold in here. Castiel can tell, if he pays attention, and he does. Castiel can almost hear Dean’s heartbeat, only a couple of feet away, Castiel’s head on a pillow Dean insisted he take, knees pulled up and lying on his side, facing Dean.

He knows he’s supposed to be asleep, that Dean had assumed that since he’d slept before, he would again. But Castiel feels no urge to sleep, no weariness, and thinks he probably couldn’t sleep if he tried.

So instead, he stays still, and wonders what Dean sees, what worlds his mind is creating. Breathe in, breathe out.

He figures he’s got about six hours before Dean wakes naturally. He can wait that long. That still leaves an hour before the meet, for Dean to do those human things he needs to do, before Castiel drops him off somewhere else. Somewhere else that Castiel hasn’t decided yet. Six hours to lie here, and watch Dean, and think.

It’s several more hours before Dean shifts, stretching his arms and bumping Castiel, eyes blinking sleepily. He can’t see, but he looks in Castiel’s general direction. “Did you sleep? Have you been watching me this entire time?”

“Yes.” Castiel wonders how Dean knew he was awake and watching him, but doesn’t ask.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yes to which question?”

“I have been watching you.”

Dean sighs, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling. “That’s creepy. And stalker-ish.” He states it plainly, like stating it will change Castiel's mind on the staring.

Castiel responds by turning on his back, and looking at the ceiling. “Go back to sleep, Dean.”

There’s silence for a few minutes, and Castiel decides Dean is going back to sleep, when Dean suddenly speaks. “I want to be there, tomorrow.”

“Dean –“

“I know those sigils, I’ve got’em memorized. I can help, Cas.”

True, but with qualifications. Dean isn’t even as knowledgeable as a normal fallen angel, because the memories are blocked.

“And no rant about how I’m helpless, either! Because I’m not – I’m a hunter, I know how to fight.”

“I don’t rant,” Castiel says mildly.

“Your version of a rant,” Dean corrects.

“I’m not letting you go to the meet.”

“Cas, I – dammit, can you turn the light on so I can see?” He flails with his arms blindly, managing to smack Castiel lightly.

“No. It’s not morning.”

Dean hits his shoulder. Not hard, probably knowing better. “You ass,” but his voice is lilting.

Castiel smiles, irrepressible.

Dean twists in bed, facing Castiel’s direction. “I sleep better this way,” he comments. “Dunno why. I mean, I’ve only ever once – with a guy … never mind. You don’t even know what I’m talking about, do you?”

Castiel knows it has nothing to do with the meet, but that’s the extent of it. “Not really, no.”

Dean looks amused. “You’re so innocent sometimes, you know that?”

“I’m not innocent,” Castiel protests. How Dean could think that, having seen what Castiel is capable of, is baffling.

“In this, you are.”

“What’s this?”

Dean’s silence seems to project amusement and frustration at all once. “You’ll figure it out.”

Castiel isn’t so sure, but he has a feeling that is the end of this particular conversation. “You can stay nearby,” Castiel decides. It’s not like he has a specific place for Dean to stay anymore. He supposes he could pick at random, but the cell phone trace, if that’s what it was, makes Castiel wary of even that. Keeping Dean close seems like the only option – the safest option. “But not at the actual meet.”

“Okay, I can live with that.”

“Exactly. You’ll live,” Castiel says dryly.

Dean snorts. “Go to sleep.” He breathes deep, throws on arm over his eyes, the other limp by his side. By Castiel’s side.

A comfortable silence settles. After a few minutes, silently, Castiel slips his hand under Dean’s. Castiel hears a sharp intake of breath, but Dean doesn’t pull away. _I’m making a choice_ , Castiel thinks, and takes Dean’s hand in his own. Dean twitches, and then tightens his grip on Castiel. In the darkness, Castiel can see his lips curve into a smile.

\-----------------------------

Castiel brings Dean straight to the recreation center. It has two basketball courts inside, along with smaller rooms for other activities which Castiel does not immediately recognize. Dean lets go of Castiel’s hand as soon as they arrive, looking around curiously. He walks over to the seating beside one of the basketball courts, sits down and then focuses on Castiel.

“How long do I wait here?”

“Until I come to get you.” Dean opens his mouth as if to speak, but Castiel continues. “If I don’t within fifteen minutes, go to the safehouse I mentioned. If another angel comes, use the banishing sigil. They might be in the network, if an attack happens and we win, but you have no way of knowing that, so the banishing is safer.”

“Got it,” Dean says with a nod.

Castiel exhales. “Be safe.”

“Yeah, ditto,” Dean says quietly. “Cas?”

“Yes?” Castiel stills his wings.

“If something does happen – I mean, to me … make sure Sam is safe, will you?”

Castiel blinks. He thinks that’s unlikely, Castiel’s own death being far more probable, but this is a promise Castiel knows he can and will keep. “I will.”

Castiel lifts his wings and is in the center of the park within moments. It’s midmorning, not many people wandering down the paths. There’s maybe a few dozen humans in sight, the park flat so the surrounding area is quite visible. Meaningless except in the sense of sigils being impossible to place, impossible to hide.

He feels more than hears the rush of wind behind him, and he turns.

“Castiel,” Balthazar says in greeting. He has a loose shirt on, a jacket over that, looking comfortable and at ease in a way Castiel suspects he himself is not. He approaches Castiel, closer than normal, and Castiel realizes he’s just as wary about an ambush as Castiel is.

“Balthazar. Have you seen the others?”

Balthazar shakes his head. “I’m sure they’ll turn up. Oh, wait.”

Ceria appears, looking frazzled. Her long black hair is mussed, and she’s got a trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth, bright against her dark skin. She wipes it, nods at Castiel, then begins a careful scan of the surrounding area. “Ran into some trouble when I went to a safehouse,” she says. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“So the safehouses are compromised, then,” Castiel says. It’s good to see her. Castiel knows he can count on her.

“I found the same thing,” Balthazar adds.

“The network has scattered. I’ve told everyone I can find to scatter and not tell anyone where they go,” Castiel says to the two of them.

He’s about to say more when Wynn flies into view, less than gracefully. He gives Castiel a short nod, looks around without meeting anyone’s eyes. He doesn’t move closer. “I’m surprised we all made it.”

“Yes,” Castiel says. Wynn isn’t fallen, like Balthazar, fitted into a male human vessel with indistinct brown hair and eyes. But Wynn has always been the quiet one, not eager to fight. Castiel spreads his senses, looking for anything amiss. He finds it.

Castiel draws his blade.

“Castiel,” Wynn says, the rest of whatever he is about to say cut-off when five angels appear.

There’s the woman in the gray suit with the gray eyes and four others, less powerful angels in vessels, three male and one female. T-shirts and jeans, mostly. Castiel spares a moment of concern for the humans in the area – something that has occurred to him far too late – and notes Balthazar and Ceria starting to draw their weapons. Michael’s forces surround the four of them in a loose square, and Castiel has only a moment to wonder why so few when they attack. One attacks all of them, except Wynn, he starts backing up away from the fight.

Castiel sees around a feint, sees Balthazar also dodging a blow out of the corner of his eye. And he sees Wynn, blade drawn, outside the field of battle. Castiel pushes the angel who attacked him away from him, hard, and throws his blade.

It hits Wynn in the chest, and for the first time, he looks surprised. Castiel has a moment of vicious satisfaction – this betrayal hurts less, Castiel never knew him well – but it’s quickly lost by necessity. There’s a bright flash of light, spreading in a concussive blast. Dimly, Castiel hears humans in the area start screaming, probably thinking it’s a bomb, hopefully running. Castiel attempts to run to the body, retrieve his blade, but a hand reaches out and grabs his throat, halting his momentum so completely that he slams down to sidewalk with such force it cracks beneath him.

The woman at this throat, the one who attacked Dean and his family, smiles, having entered the battle for the first time. “You think that will save you?”

There’s a bright flash of light as Balthazar kills one of the other angels. He hears Balthazar speak: “Zachariah!”

“I’ve been waiting for this,” Zachariah says to Castiel, still holding him down. Castiel struggles, both hands on Zachariah’s one, seeing Zachariah bring his other hand around, holding a blade. The vessel looks frail, but Zachariah is anything but. Castiel isn’t afraid, not for himself. He sees Dean, waiting, in his mind. “You won’t escape this time,” Zachariah promises, and Castiel wonders how he didn’t see who she was before.

Castiel sees Balthazar approach out of the corner of his eye, sees Zachariah glance up and use her power to throw him away like a rag doll.

Another flash, Ceria screaming Castiel’s name.

Zachariah stabs Castiel, the blade sinking into him easily, but the strike is off, Castiel trying to catch the blow at the last minute by taking one hand from where Zachariah holds his throat, managing to shift the blow. Pain flares, blood bubbling up past his lips, and he suddenly flashes back to Uriel. He grabs the blade like he did then, but this time using all of his strength to keep it there, inside of him. Trying desperately to relieve Zachariah of his blade. Zachariah blinks, wings flaring in Castiel’s astral sight.

Then Castiel sees Dean, running through the dry grass, and _what is he doing here_?

The battle seems to freeze for a split second. Castiel sees Balthazar and Ceria each fighting an angel, Zachariah’s focus turning away from Castiel.

Zachariah smile turns even colder, focusing on Dean, pulling the blade out of Castiel without even glancing his way.

Castiel can’t have that. Terror races through him for Dean, a kind of terror he’s never known before. He pushes with his wings, flies barely thirty feet to land in front of Dean. He stumbles almost immediately, falling to his knees, and feels Dean behind him, arms under his, holding him up. “Cas! Oh shit,” Dean mutters, his voice unexpectedly loud so close, his breathing hitching. His grip is tight, and Castiel can feel the desperation in the contact.

Castiel's body is a pittance of a shield, but it’s enough. Zachariah tries to reach out, but Castiel blocks it with his grace, forming a barrier around the two of them. It’s weak, very weak, but Balthazar and Ceria both attack in that moment, and Zachariah turns to face them. Something seems to shift, but Castiel can’t pin down what it is.

Zachariah pushes Ceria away without touching her, but is unable to do to the same with Balthazar, instead managing to graze Balthazar when he goes for her side.

Ceria finds her feet, but the fourth angel finally attacks, and that’s when Castiel realizes sigils have been drawn preventing flight. Preventing escape. Ceria takes her, blade drawn, and then Castiel’s attention is shifted back to Balthazar, who glances back but doesn’t help, moving forward towards Zachariah.

“What,” Balthazar pants for a second, glancing down at the blood flowing from his arm, then adds mockingly, “not enough subordinates to order around anymore?” He gestures at the bodies with his bloody blade.

“Or something else,” Ceria says, in the wake of another burst of light, echoing Castiel’s own thought. Only five – six, counting Wynn – to take on three? Michael still has the superior numbers, but he’s not taking advantage. Or Zachariah is unable to.

“Cas,” Dean whispers in Castiel’s ear. “I can do the banishing sigil –“

Castiel staggers to his feet in response, careful to keep Dean behind him. “No,” he says softly. They can’t. There’s no running, not when they can’t fly, and this is an opportunity they need to take. Something tells Castiel they won’t get another one, with Zachariah alone and with no support. They’ve conducted entire campaigns trying to seek this sort of tactical opportunity. “Kill her,” he orders Ceria and Balthazar.

It’s a ridiculous order, nearly impossible, but there’s three of them. He sees Ceria nod, Balthazar taking in the order without ever glancing away from the enemy.

“Are you so stupid?” Zachariah asks, thin lips twisting into a gruesome smile. “Thinking you can defeat me? I am stronger than all of you.” She turns an angry, even gaze at Castiel. “Move away from him, and your death will be merciful.” She smirks. “Michael is the angel of mercy, after all.”

When Castiel and Balthazar don’t answer, Ceria heads over to Wynn’s body, grasping Castiel’s blade and pulling it out, then tossing it to him. He catches it easily. He’s still weak, but what strength he has left he intends on using.

Zachariah doesn’t lose her confidence. She reaches out and Ceria – the weakest of the three – falls again, bleeding and spitting blood, but Balthazar attacks at the same moment, blades clashing.

“Stay here,” Castiel says over his shoulder, to Dean. “I mean it.”

Castiel doesn’t interfere immediately. Balthazar and Zachariah exchange blows, Balthazar gets injured again, and then Castiel strikes. He feels Zachariah’s grace rip into him as he does it, nearly causing the matter in his body, along with his grace, to explode. But she doesn’t quite have the strength to manage it, not quite being an archangel and distracted by two points of battle, and the moment of distraction gives Balthazar the chance he needs.

His blade goes through Zachariah’s shoulder, and Castiel’s goes through her back. She screams with her true voice, lashes out wildly and gets Balthazar in his side. He stumbles back, and Zachariah rips into Castiel again, and it feels a lot like when Michael turned and … Castiel fades out for a second, and he’s at his knees. He looks up and prays.

He sees Zachariah dismiss him as a threat, turn back to Balthazar, and that’s when Castiel slips his blade through the smallest gap in Zachariah’s form, reaching around and stabbing through her neck. He doesn’t quite have the leverage to complete the blow, but Balthazar does.

He shoves it so deep the hilt becomes imbedded in skin, the point on the other side, facing Castiel, dripping red. Balthazar just as quickly removes the blade, blood splattering with a wet sound.

The body falls.

The flash and rush of air is powerful, no doubt flattening several trees as well as knocking them off their feet, turning everything white for a few precious seconds. As it fades, Castiel turns around to look for Dean, but doesn’t find him. Terror races again, _Dean Dean Dean_. “Dean!” He almost rushes forward, but Balthazar takes his arm, half stopping and half lifting him.

“Castiel, stay still,” Balthazar growls.

Then Castiel sees him, kneeling thirty feet away, a cut on his forehead, and Castiel feels it when Dean breaks the sigil. Castiel exhales roughly, feeling the blood in his throat, coughing it up. Dean rises and rushes toward Castiel, slowing when he gets close, looking him up and down. “Shit,” Dean says.

“Yes, quite,” Balthazar says.

“Take us to your safehouse,” Castiel tells Balthazar, gesturing to Dean. He shifts his attention. “Ceria, can you travel?”

She limps over. “Yes.”

Balthazar takes Castiel and Dean, allowing Ceria to follow, as the distant sounds of sirens rise.

\-----------------------------

For some reason, being taken instead of flying there himself makes the journey disorientating. They arrive in a room with one wall entirely made of windows, showing a forest, and two large beds. Castiel sways, vision flitting in and out, and notices absently that sigils are embedded in the wood floor – not sketched on top, but actually pieces of scrolling wood creating the designs.

Balthazar’s a warm, solid mass at his side, and with uncharacteristic gentleness, he places Castiel on one of the beds. Castiel slumps against the headboard. Ceria sits on the other side, not a hint of pain in her eyes but holding her stomach, the only thing revealing how injured she really is.

Dean moves to Castiel’s side. “Are you okay? You’re not going to die, are you?” Dean face is filled with concern and worry, and there’s Castiel’s blood on his hands.

Both Balthazar and Ceria look surprised, but Castiel just answers the question. “No. If it doesn’t kill us immediately, we survive our injuries.” He looks at the two others, and adds, “He doesn’t remember himself.”

“Why not?” Ceria questions, wary.

“His memories are blocked,” Castiel answers. “Balthazar, is this your personal safehouse?”

Balthazar nods. “’Course. Can’t see the network springing for _this_ , can you?”

Ceria hides a smile, coughs, and turns herself so she’s lying on the bed.

“Then no one else knows of it?” Castiel presses. He’s thinking of Wynn, not giddy because of survival like the others.

“Yes. Stop worrying,” Balthazar commands, almost playful. It fades when he looks at Dean, turning to a frown. He eyes him carefully, but for what Castiel can’t tell. He focuses on Castiel within moments. “You’re going to ruin my sheets,” Balthazar complains.

Castiel eyes Balthazar’s own bloody injuries and doesn’t respond.

“What is this, a mansion?” Dean asks. He keeps looking around, absently, trying to take in all the details but seeming overwhelmed, from the slightly widened look in his eyes.

Balthazar spreads his arms and begins to speak, then winces. “Yes,” he says at last, “it’s a mansion. No reason to live a Spartan lifestyle, after all, no matter what Castiel here thinks.”

Castiel ignores the dig. “Dean, don’t leave the house,” he says. “It will be some time before we recover, and we don’t know how many will be searching for us.”

“You can’t heal each other?” Dean looks from one to another.

“Not with as badly injured as we all are,” Castiel says. “It’s best if we just spent our own energies.”

“So shoo,” Balthazar says, as he slowly lowers himself to the other bed, not paying any attention to the sheets, as Castiel expected. Half of the things Balthazar says he says for no other reason than to be sarcastic or prickly. “There’s other things to do here. We need to have a chat.”

Dean’s face darkens. “And I’m supposed to be left out?”

“Dean,” Castiel says. It’s all he says, but Dean nods reluctantly. An unexpected acquiescence.

“I don’t like this,” Dean adds. “I’ll go … find some food.” He backs up, and something in Castiel wants him to stay. He fiercely ignores it.

Balthazar gives Dean a lazy salute as a goodbye.

“Thank you, Dean," Castiel says. He lays back and shuts his eyes, hearing the door of the room open and quietly close. Castiel is alone with his cell. Unlike before, wary to give out information to them, he knows they are trustworthy. He knows his instincts were right, even though he couldn’t pin Wynn down until the meet. Something within subtly relaxes, and he almost smiles.

“Interesting fallen angel,” Balthazar says, and when Castiel is opens his eyes, he sees Balthazar looking at the closed door. “You know who he is?”

“No,” Castiel says. “I hoped one of you might recognize him.”

Ceria changes her position, so unlike Castiel she’s completely lying down. She’s focused inward, eyes drifting about the room almost blankly. Her voice is soft. “Strange, that he cannot remember. A strange coincidence, as well.”

Castiel sighs. “Zachariah was on the verge of killing him and his family when I caught up. That Wynn brought Zachariah to the meet of my cell … is not a coincidence. I agree, Ceria. There’s also the number of angels Zachariah brought with her.”

“She could have brought dozens, but she didn’t,” Ceria notes.

“So dear Zach was up to something he didn’t want Michael to know about?”

“But why would killing a fallen one be something to be hidden?” Castiel asks.

“A spy. The attacks designed to make us trust him.” Ceria looks evenly at Castiel, as if expecting him to object.

Castiel shakes his head; not an outright denial, but a show of skepticism. “It’s a sin to fall. A huge one. Besides the risk involved, they’re too convinced that dying as fallen angel dooms us to hell or non-existence.”

“You don’t think Michael could order someone to do it anyway?” Ceria asks.

“I don’t know,” Castiel admits. “But if so, they’re attracting too much attention to Dean.”

“There’s another possibility,” Balthazar interjects, as he keeps attempting to find some position both comfortable and lounge-like, to emphasize his own ease. “Dean’s high-ranking, and they don’t want it known that someone so powerful decided to fall.”

“That’s what I was guessing,” Castiel replies. “Or he knows something that, if spread, could be disastrous. The limitation on those present could be a guard against that.”

Balthazar taps his knees absentmindedly. “Are you sure he’s not faking the amnesia?”

“Yes, quite sure. I felt the block myself.”

“You could push through,” Ceria points out.

“The block is strong. It could injure him.” Castiel isn’t willing to risk that.

“Not knowing whatever he knows could injure us,” Ceria answers. “You’ve gotten close to him, haven’t you?”

“Are you saying I’m not objective?”

“Should I?” Ceria retorts.

“Perhaps,” Castiel admits. His prior actions have always seemed reasonable, but if both Ceria and Balthazar think otherwise, they must be reviewed. Certainly his emotions seem to be out of control when it comes to Dean. “If he is a spy, he has no current knowledge of it. I believe we should rest, and make our decision about Dean then.”

“You’re actually going to trust us?” Balthazar says, in a surprised, almost mocking tone. “My my, Dean has changed you.”

“You know as well as I that we had a spy,” Castiel says. “I had reason to be cautious. But the threat is passed, at least for the moment. If either of you were spies, you would not have killed Zachariah. If there are other spies … they are not among us three.”

“Logical as ever,” Balthazar drones.

“Well, at least we know that if you were the spy, the network would already be destroyed,” Ceria says lightly.

“Should I let Dean listen in now?” Balthazar asks, pointing lazily at the door.

Castiel is equally aware of Dean waiting at the door. “He’ll get tired of hearing nothing eventually.”

“Rest,” Ceria reminds.

Castiel exhales, Balthazar gives a quiet humming noise, and Ceria makes no sound at all. Castiel turns his head to look at her. She’s staring thoughtfully at the ceiling, dark eyes filled with thought. Castiel knows the subject, but he wonders what she will say later on. She is wickedly intelligent, both as a human and an angel, and whatever she says cuts like a blade. Even Balthazar, who absorbs things with practiced ease, has felt the cut.

An angel’s blade, an angel’s power is one of the few things that hurts an angel for any length of time. Castiel and Ceria had come closest to death. Castiel doesn’t even know how long it will take for his grace to recover, and begin to heal his body. He still feels it, splintered within, manifesting as an ache in his physical human form. He’s rarely been attacked this way since Michael, because to shatter grace requires a lot of power, more than simply killing does.

He dozes, but doesn’t quite fall asleep, to the twin sounds of his brother and sister breathing.

\-----------------------------

Castiel’s aware when Dean comes in. The sound of Dean’s footsteps are quieter than usual, and Castiel deduces, eyes still closed, that Dean’s now barefoot.

There’s a ghost of a touch along his arm, and a quiet, “Cas?”

“I’m awake,” Castiel says, finally opening his eyes.

“You look better,” Dean offers. Dean looks different as well, considerably calmer. “Less like a pale-as-death vampire.”

“Vampires aren’t necessarily pale,” Castiel informs him.

Dean laughs. “Vampires are real?”

“Almost extinct,” Castiel replies. “I’m not surprised you haven’t come across them.”

Dean’s mouth quirks, but all he asks is, “You ready to get up? I made dinner.”

Castiel gets up, feeling a twinge when he pulls himself into a sitting position, but it fades as he stands. His sweater is still all bloody, as are his jeans, but he doesn’t have the strength yet to fix that. Or rather, not energy he wants to waste on something so trivial. Dean’s gaze keeps skittering away, though, determinedly focusing on Castiel’s face.

“Are we allowed to join in?” Balthazar gets up more swiftly than Castiel managed, and raises an eyebrow. He’s also managed to make himself look more presentable.

Dean nods. “Yeah. I made plenty. I thought angels didn’t eat, though.”

“Nah, that’s just Cas here,” Balthazar says. “The rest of us like to indulge. That was my food you made dinner out of, remember?”

Ceria says, “I’ll stay here, I think. Thank you, Dean.” Her eyes are half-lidded, but she’s watching Dean.

Dean frowns, probably noticing. He glances again at Castiel, relaxing a bit at the contact, and walks out. Castiel follows, finding himself in a hallway that leads to an open room, one side filled with a large kitchen. It’s a full house – there’s a breakfast table, a dining room, and a living room in which the focal point is a large television set. It’s distinctly modern, enough that even Castiel can tell the difference, all smooth lines and minimalism. Dean walks around as if he’s already comfortable, which considering they’d left him alone for almost five hours, he probably is.

Balthazar grabs a plate for himself at the same time Dean grabs two. It’s some kind of dark meat and potatoes. Dean gives Castiel a generous helping, Balthazar watchful.

“Guess I should have pegged you as a meat and potato guy,” Balthazar says, sitting down at the table and taking a bite.

“Really? Why?” Dean looks wary.

Balthazar twirls his fork and doesn’t answer.

“Right,” Dean says, annoyed. He looks at Castiel, watches as Castiel eats the food. Castiel can tell he’s purposefully ignoring Balthazar, while Balthazar just looks amused. Castiel guesses that Balthazar is prodding Dean, trying to figure him out.

He wants to give Balthazar a warning look, but carefully represses the urge. If Balthazar wants to discover something, Castiel has to give him the chance to do so.

“So how long have you been travelling with Cas?” Balthazar asks.

“’Bout a week,” Dean answers.

“Ah,” Balthazar says. “It’s just that Cassie here is already quite interested in you. I can tell.”

Castiel stuffs his mouth full of meat so he can’t say anything.

“Yeah?” Dean’s focus has narrowed to a single point. “Your point being?”

“Nothing, nothing. I really must get to know you better, Dean. I’ve never seen Castiel so flustered.”

“Balthazar,” Castiel snaps, the name coming out despite himself.

“What? It’s obviously true.” He looks at Castiel, all wide-eyed innocence. “I have to know his intentions, Cas.”

Dean chokes.

“What intentions?” Castiel asks. Is Balthazar asking about Dean’s intentions towards the network? But why? If Dean is a spy, he doesn’t know it. Is he trying to attain knowledge of Dean’s personality for when Dean does remember?

Dean slaps his forehead, which transforms into him rubbing his face, so Castiel knows he’s exasperated, but not why.

Balthazar gives Dean a sympathizing look, and pats his hand. “I know, I know. But I’m his big brother. I have to ask.”

Dean snatches his hand away. “Nothing’s happened.”

“Dean –“ Castiel wants to rectify his confusion.

“Eat your food,” Dean commands Castiel.

Castiel blinks.

“So where are you from?” Balthazar asks, the mocking note he’s been using with Dean fading.

Dean shrugs. “Everywhere. We moved a lot.”

“His family are hunters,” Castiel adds.

“Really. That’s unusual,” Balthazar says, pursing his lips briefly. “Not many hunters around. Is that how you found him?”

“I found his father through the Roadhouse,” Castiel says. “A bar,” he adds, when he sees the lack of recognition on Dean’s face.

“Right. So an angel walks into a bar …” Dean stops.

Castiel tilts his head.

“Never mind.”

“An angel walks into a bar and then walks out, if you’re Castiel,” Balthazar offers. “Or tortures people first.”

Castiel frowns.

“I heard about it. Was curious what you were up to,” Balthazar says. Castiel wonders where, but then, Balthazar had more contacts with supernatural beings – pagan gods and goddesses, mostly – than most angels. “You’ve got the hunting community in quite the tizzy, trying to figure out who and what you are. God only knows if they’ll connect it to the park, disaster as that was.”

“You tortured someone to find me?” Dean interjects, placing his fork down, shoulders rising defensively.

Unaccountably, Castiel feels embarrassed. “I did not do so lightly, Dean. And I healed her afterwards.”

“Castiel never fails,” Balthazar says, and the words come out calmly and evenly this time. “He cares too much.” Balthazar’s smile twists into something dark. “He’s the better one of us.”

“Why do you say that?” Castiel asks, honestly puzzled.

“Because you asked that question,” Balthazar replies.

Dean looks between the two of them, staring at each other. “Did you fall?” he asks Balthazar.

“Nope. I’ve never really wanted to be utterly helpless.” Balthazar returns to his normal self, begins eating again.

“Is that how most angels see it?”

“No,” Castiel says. “Most don’t see it that way.”

Dean takes this in. Without his memory, Dean seems skeptical of his choice to fall. Castiel supposes that as a human, he only sees the power of angel, not the mindset. It’s the mind, or the soul if angels had them, that changes when an angel falls. The choice to fall is the choice to change. Whether that’s for better or worse depends on whose side you’re on. Castiel has heard of network members defecting or attempting to defect back to Michael. It was always rare, but it’s even more so now, because they know from Joshua those angels are killed anyway, once they are debriefed completely. But no fallen angel has ever defected, or even given the indication of the possibility.

Another reason Dean as a spy seems unlikely. Or if he is, he may choose not to be.

Castiel doesn’t know.

Dean eats the rest of his food methodically. Castiel has already finished his.

“What’s your full name?” Balthazar asks Dean.

Dean hesitates. “Dean Winchester.”

“How old are you?”

“What’s it matter?”

“I’m curious.”

“Well, screw your curiosity.” Dean folds his arms.

Balthazar holds up his hands. “Tell me, is that what you said to Castiel when he asked?”

“He didn’t interrogate me,” Dean retorts. “I’m not stupid. I can tell what you think.”

Ceria appears from the hallway, walking silently. “Our lives are at stake, Dean.” She sits down next to Balthazar, across from Dean, and smoothes her hands on the wood table, apparently for no other reason than to feel the texture. “You should be able to understand our position. You are used to keeping secrets, aren’t you? As a hunter?”

“I don’t keep secrets,” Dean says. “People just deny what they see.”

Ceria glances at Castiel, and there’s more than one meaning there. He focuses on the grain of the wood for a moment, then gives a very small nod.

“Why do you think it is you don’t remember, Dean?”

“How would I know that? I don’t _remember_ anything.”

“We’ve never had this situation before, to my knowledge,” Ceria says. “What makes you so special?”

“What makes you so irritating?” Dean snaps back. He glances at Castiel.

Ceria catalogs the reaction; Castiel knows her well enough to see what’s going through her head, and her next words don’t surprise him. “You may have compromised Castiel, but you won’t compromise us.” She gestures at Balthazar and herself.

“Compromised? Cas isn’t compromised. What the fuck are you talking about?” Dean is fully defensive now, but even more so now that Castiel’s name is mentioned than when it was just his own.

Ceria sees this. “He’s acted out of protocol with you by exposing you to information you should not have. He knows that. When the network is reestablished, there will be consequences.”

Castiel knows she’s shooting in the dark. Accurately, though. They both know, of course, that Castiel gave Dean at least some information he should not have when he allowed Dean to accompany him to scatter the network. They don’t know he allowed Dean to view information Anna gave him.

“Cas didn’t do anything wrong,” Dean says, gazing again at Castiel, as if expecting him to speak up and object. “I’m not a spy. I don’t care what you think of me, or that I’ve got motherfucking amnesia, I don’t do that – I don’t betray family. Assuming you are my family, since I certainly don’t remember or know any of you!”

“But you know Castiel,” Ceria says.

“Hell of a lot better than I know you,” Dean says, low. “Can’t say I’m impressed with the rest of the network.”

Ceria is deliberately cold, giving Castiel a dismissive glance. “We’ll inform the others of –“

Dean cuts her off. “Cas may not have you, but he has me. I don’t know what that means to you, but I’m pretty sure it means something to him.” Dean gets to his feet looks at him. “Cas? We could get out of here, right?”

Castiel wants to speak, but knows he should let Ceria decide that.

After a long pause, Ceria leans back and folds her hands in her lap. “He has us as well, Dean,” she says, voice softening. “I’m sorry. I had to know how you would react when pushed.”

Dean stares at her for a long second, but he doesn’t explode as Castiel half expected him to. Then he focuses on Castiel, and Castiel knows he’s not just angry at Ceria. “Your family is a bunch of dicks.” And walks off, going to the door that leads to the porch and stalking out.

Castiel gets up to follow, but Balthazar catches him with a touch. “He’ll still be hidden. I’ve protected the surrounding grounds as well.”

“He defended you,” Ceria says to Castiel. “He’s attached to you. He didn’t abandon you when I placed you in a weakened position.”

“And the point of discovering that was?” Castiel keeps looking out the door Dean didn’t bother to close.

“A soldier of Michael wouldn’t do that. Michael would never let an angel go and fall without setting something within that would retain the angelic personality. The … lack of emotions. There’d be too much risk of defection otherwise.”

“I see,” Castiel says. She’s right; he doesn’t know why he didn’t think of it. “Very good thinking.”

“Of course, now he’s pissed at us and poor Cassie here,” Balthazar says. “Is there a reason you’re trying to prevent Cas from getting laid, Ceria?”

The look Ceria gives Balthazar cuts like ice. “Balthazar.”

“Laid?” Castiel repeats. He knows this term. “Is that what you were talking about before?”

Balthazar gestures at the place above Castiel’s head. “There’s the light bulb!”

Ceria glares at Balthazar, though there’s not much genuine heat behind it. She thwacks his arm lightly as she rises. “I would rest again,” she says to Castiel.

He nods his acquiescence, recognizes the gesture for what it is – a return of control. Ceria trusts him, still. He doesn’t react to Balthazar’s words. He hasn’t seen anything of the sort. Dean said it himself: nothing’s happened. Castiel … Castiel doesn’t know Dean feels anything like that. He doesn’t.

Balthazar starts puttering around the kitchen as Castiel walks away, to where Dean is.

The porch is large. Castiel would guess it actually stretches around the house, looking over the pine trees that cover the horizon, patches of slowly darkening blue sky visible through them. They’re ancient, curving up over the house, as if the house has been here for a long time, though Castiel knows that’s rather unlikely. But Balthazar had chosen a remote place for his safehouse, as Castiel had. He knows where they are, of course. Not in the sense of knowing the state or country or continent, but he could find his way here again.

It’s cold, more knowledge than sensation to Castiel, and he sees Dean shivering.

Dean’s leaning on the railing, arms folded in front of him. All Castiel can see is the back of his head, hanging low.

“You knew she was going to do that.”

“I knew she would do something,” Castiel admits. “It’s important that they check my actions.”

Dean turns to look at Dean over his shoulder. “That was about you?”

“In one way. Judging my decisions in trusting you.”

Dean turns away. “What’d you decide?”

“Ceria thinks you are trustworthy. As I always have, Dean. You need not take insult. Our situation is precarious, they are merely cautious.”

“You didn’t do that.”

“That doesn’t mean what Ceria did was unjustified.”

“Why did you trust me, then?”

Castiel thinks about it. “I trusted you to a degree from the beginning. But do you not remember me keeping things from you? It wasn’t that long ago.”

“But it seems like it,” Dean says. “Seems like we’ve been together a long time.”

“Yes.”

Dean’s hands drop from the rail. Castiel takes several steps forward, so he’s standing beside Dean, can look him in the eye. Dean’s not angry. He holds himself straight, but there’s something tired in his eyes.

Castiel almost speaks, then doesn’t.

Castiel is comfortable with Dean. He trusts Dean. Something about Dean makes Castiel want to be near him. He recognizes this as friendship, but also something more - there’s an intensity in the way Dean looks at him, a strange edge to how he interacts with Castiel. The edge is like a flicker of something with more depth, something almost infinitely vast hiding behind it. Dean, Castiel supposes. The real Dean - Castiel wants to know him.

Castiel wants to touch him.

He takes a sharp, sudden breath. Forcefully lets it go. “You should rest, Dean.”

Dean faces him. “Still so concerned about my physical wellbeing?”

“And the rest of you,” Castiel replies.

Dean smirks, though Castiel doesn’t know why. Instead of inquiring, Castiel asks another question. “I told you to stay behind, and you didn’t.”

“Well, things changed,” Dean says defensively. “Cas, I found unlit circles of holy oil. They knew you were coming, were probably planning on driving you towards the rec center if things didn’t go to plan. I came out to warn you.” Dean huffs out a breath. “Though I suppose you’d figured that out by then.”

“You only endangered yourself and me, since I had to protect you,” Castiel points out. “You should have done as I said.”

“I had to, Cas,” Dean insists. There’s something fierce and frustrated in his eyes.

“Why?” He’s honestly confused.

“You’re an idiot,” Dean says, and kisses him.

For all the anger in his words, the touch is light, pleasant, warm. Castiel recognizes that Dean is holding his arms as a secondary thing; all he feels is the kiss. This, this is a _kiss_. It is Castiel’s first. Dean retreats an inch away, and Castiel takes in Dean’s exhale, strangely intimate.

“This is allowed, right?”

Castiel can feel the puff of air as Dean speaks. He can feel how close Dean is. Castiel _feels._

Dean starts to withdraw, intensity giving way to uncertainty.

“Yes, this is allowed,” Castiel whispers, following. He doesn’t know if Dean is speaking in the larger sense or the more personal, but it doesn’t matter.

A small smile returns to Dean’s face, and he suddenly recognizes that there’s no sadness behind it this time. Dean kisses him again, mouth open and wet, and Castiel touches his face, fingers along Dean’s cheek, and Castiel is responding this time, mimicking Dean because he knows nothing else, and Castiel lets out a strange and high pitched moan when Dean grabs Castiel’s waist and pulls them together, the curve of Dean’s body abruptly close and _hot_ , Castiel can feel it all the way through his clothes to his skin to his bones.

Dean stops kissing Castiel to take a breath, and Castiel gasps for air, even though he needs none, eyes fluttering open without ever knowing they’d been closed.

“Have you done that before?” Dean asks softly.

Castiel shakes his head. He’d never had the interest.

Dean leans his head until his forehead touches Castiel’s, and he sighs. “I wish we were alone.”

“Aren’t we?”

Dean grins. “Step two is usually in a bed.” He kisses Castiel again, lightly.

Then there’s the sound of someone clapping. Castiel turns to look – it’s Balthazar. He hears Dean mutter, “Figures,” and Balthazar just smiles.

 

\-----------------------------

They communicate through touch the rest of the night. Small, light ones, hands touching without being intertwined as they sit in the living room, Dean sitting closer to Castiel than he had before, touches reinforced with swift glances that speak volumes. And Castiel knows Dean, almost knows what Dean will say before he speaks it. It’s heady and beautiful and strange, and curiously inevitable. Or that’s what it feels like.

They sit on the same couch, both barefoot, Dean with his legs folded, knee touching Castiel’s leg. The lights in the house are all on now, night having fallen, dark here in the wild.

Ceria sits in an armchair, feet curled up, chin resting on her hand. Balthazar’s sitting on another couch, glass of wine in hand. The contrast between Ceria and Balthazar is large, as always. Anna chose Castiel’s cell, so Castiel knows the contrast is purposeful, intended to be useful, and it is.

“So I know four that I can possibly contact, and Balthazar knows six,” Ceria says, drumming the armchair with her fingertips.

“You want us to report how many the ones we reach can contact?” Balthazar asks.

Castiel nods. “That would be wise.” He feels more than sees Dean move, as if in agreement.

“We can move now,” Ceria says. She’s healed; not that she shows pain, but she’s not foolish enough to go on a mission she doesn’t feel prepared for.

“I want you to back each other up,” Castiel says. “I don’t want you working alone, in case the places you meet are compromised.”

“Wynn didn’t know about them,” Balthazar points out, eyes narrowing. “Why would they be compromised?”

“Wynn didn’t know about Omeriel, either.” The thought makes Castiel itch. “At least as far as we know. It’s uncertain how much Wynn communicated to Michael’s forces.”

“Not to mention the possibility of another spy,” Ceria adds. “Castiel is right. We should stick together.”

Balthazar leans back and frowns, but doesn’t object.

“What about us?” Dean pops in, gesturing at Castiel and himself.

Castiel is thoughtful, turning to look at Dean. “We need to work on your memory.”

“I thought you said that was dangerous,” Balthazar interjects.

“Yes, if I push the wall down. I’ve been thinking of ways to break it down – that Dean needs to break it down, not me. If Dean does it himself, I think it would be far safer.”

Dean looks skeptical. “How am I supposed to do that?”

“Meditation, mental focus,” Castiel says. And adds before Dean can speak, “Which you are capable of. Everyone is.”

Dean closes his mouth. “’Kay, I’ll give it a shot.”

“Thank you.”

Ceria rises gracefully. “Time to do our part,” she says, looking at Balthazar with one eyebrow lifted.

“I can’t even finish my wine?” Balthazar complains, but puts the glass down and stands. “We’ll do mine first,” he adds, holding out a hand. Ceria takes it, only Castiel sees them both spread their wings, and they both disappear.

Castiel gets up and starts walking, Dean following curiously. He bumps up against Castiel as they walk, and Castiel glances at him, sees Dean smile. A giddy feeling rises in Castiel, and he smiles back foolishly. “Where are we going?” Dean inquires.

“It’s best you be comfortable,” Castiel says, leading them to one of the other bedrooms, one that doesn’t have bloody sheets. It faces the other way, though the floor to ceiling window on one wall still shows pine trees. There’s also moonlight filtering through, but Castiel flicks on the light anyway. There’s a single bed, white comforter and white sheets.

Dean looks at Castiel sideways. “You do mean we’re supposed to meditate, right?”

Castiel suddenly sees the bed in a new light. “Yes,” he says to Dean, wondering if he’s blushing. “Sit down.”

He toes off his own shoes and sits cross-legged. Dean settles opposite him, stilling and looking expectant.

“Close your eyes,” Castiel says quietly.

Dean obeys, with a slightly put-upon sigh. “I don’t think this is going to work.”

“Breathe deeply in and out,” Castiel instructs, ignoring the complaint. He complies with his own instruction, watching Dean match his breathing. He keeps at it for several minutes, knowing Dean’s pulse must be slowing. “Now, remember when you fell.”

Dean’s breathing quickens.

“Calm,” Castiel says. “Whatever you were feeling then, it’s not now.”

“Right,” Dean says.

“Try to remember before you fell,” Castiel says. “You were in heaven, choosing a time and place.”

A wrinkle appears between Dean’s eyebrows. “There’s nothing.”

Castiel reaches out and lightly touches Dean’s knee. He remembers the pulse of power that was exchanged the first time they touched. _I think I know you_ , Dean said. He doesn’t touch Dean’s mind; he touches the remnants of Dean’s grace.

Dean inhales sharply and his eyes snap open. “What is that?”

“Focus on the feeling,” Castiel urges. “And close your eyes.”

Dean reluctantly does so.

There’s no exchange of power this time, but an odd echo. Something within _Castiel_ recognizing Dean, he realizes. “Do you see anything? Feel anything?” he asks softly.

Dean’s mouth opens and closes, the slight frown remaining. “It’s like talking, but there’s no sound,” Dean says.

The voice of the host. Silent and loud all at once, a vibration that doesn’t require air. Once, all angels heard it.

“I’m … talking to someone,” Dean adds.

“What are you saying?”

Dean shrugs, eyes opening.

“Eyes closed,” Castiel’s quick to say.

Dean rolls his eyes before complying. “I’m not even sure this is a real memory.”

“It is,” Castiel assures him. “Do you know who you’re talking to?”

“No,” Dean says.

Castiel nods, thinking. “Where are you?”

Another shrug.

“Heaven?”

“I don’t think so,” Dean says.

That’s strange. Angels who fall do so under a great strain of trying to keep their secret, of trying to fall silently. Communication between angels who want to fall and those on earth who have fallen is difficult at best. No angel can simply travel to earth, without orders and without being watched by the fellow members of each garrison.

Or it could mean that Dean is a spy, and he came to earth first to check something out. Or Dean could have no idea how strange different parts of heaven can be.

Castiel can’t make himself believe Dean’s a spy. Not _Dean_. Even Ceria discounted the possibility.

“Focus on where you are,” Castiel says. “Dark, light, in a building, outside …”

“Cas,” Dean says with a sigh. He opens his eyes. “There’s nothing, I swear.”

“Well, it’s a crack in the wall,” Castiel says, disappointed but deciding not to show it. “It shows you can recover your memory, albeit very slowly. We can try again tomorrow.”

Dean moves his head side to side, stretching his neck. “Sleep, then?”

“You still require it,” Castiel says.

Dean flashes a smile, gets up from the bed. He takes off his shirt, shoves off his pants, but leaves his boxers on, and then throws back the comforter and sheets. Castiel gets up, and Dean slides into bed, looking up at him calmly. “C’mere.”

“Do you still not want to talk about your feelings?” Castiel asks, approaching.

“I’m not good at talking,” Dean says, and pulls Castiel down to kiss him, brief and closed-mouth. He throws the comforter and sheets farther back and adds, “Take these off,” picking at his shirt and pants.

Castiel obeys, but leaves his boxers on, like Dean. His heart is racing, wondering, wondering how far Dean will want to go, wondering what it will be like, wondering if he’ll please Dean. Human sexuality is new territory for Castiel, something he’s never bothered with before. He doesn’t know the cultural rules, he realizes. But kissing – he liked that.

He gets in bed, resting his head on one of the pillows, looking at Dean all over, and Dean smiles at him. “Relax,” Dean says. “We don’t have to do _that_ , y’know.” He takes a deep breath like he’s steeling himself for something immense and difficult, then pulls Castiel into his arms, and Castiel goes willingly, laying his head on Dean’s shoulder.

It reminds him of waking up next to Dean, that time before; Dean seems kind of embarrassed, like he was then, but Castiel doesn’t know why. He presses the rest of his body against Dean’s, hands wandering over smooth skin. Dean’s chest, his waist, his hipbones, even the tuft of hair underneath his arms. It’s all wondrously new, and Dean twitches with each touch.

Dean smiles lazily down at him. “You’re not embarrassed about what you want at all, are you?”

“Should I be? Your body is interesting.”

Dean winces. “Not exactly what a guy wants to hear.”

Castiel focuses on Dean’s face. “You’re beautiful,” he says honestly, seeing what is within shine.

Dean blushes, says, “That’s not quite right either,” but he smiles.

Castiel stills his exploration, suddenly curious about what Dean is thinking right now. They haven’t spoken, exactly. “What is this?”

Dean uses the hand Castiel’s not lying on to tilt Castiel’s head upward, and then he kisses him. “It just is,” he says, blushing faintly. “And no more girl talk.”

“We may have known each other before, you said,” Castiel says.

“It’s crazy, how I – I mean, I haven’t known you that long. I must have lo – cared for you even then,” Dean says, correcting himself. “I can’t believe I just said that,” and closes his eyes.

“I feel the same,” Castiel says hesitantly. “Something within echoes of you.” Like fate, except Castiel doesn’t believe in fate, not anymore.

Dean opens his eyes and frowns thoughtfully. “I don’t know that means.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Castiel says. He’ll find out eventually; he doesn’t expect it to change anything.

Dean watches him for several moments. “Sleep,” he says at last, expression embarrassed and fond.

Castiel lays his head back down, then reaches out with one hand and flicks of the light with his power. A faint laugh rumbles through Dean, with a muttered, “Magic genie.”

Castiel does not sleep, and for all the hours he lays still in Dean’s sleeping arms, he is glad of it.

\-----------------------------

Dean comes out of sleep slowly, breathing halting then resuming, eyes flickering open and then closing into squints, muscles shifting beneath warm skin as he stretches. Slants of light passed through trees fall into the room, striping Dean’s skin. He becomes aware of Castiel slowly, too, first moving like he doesn’t understand the weight, then blinking open his eyes and looking at Castiel, a smile that spreads slowly.

“Hey,” Dean says, voice rough. Dean kisses Castiel, and Castiel returns it fiercely, mouth opening to Dean’s, licking his way in.

Dean moans and suddenly flips on top of Castiel, and that’s when Castiel feels the hard, hot line of Dean’s cock. A rush of arousal, low in his belly, comes in response, and this time it’s Castiel who moans. He feels himself become hard, sensation strange and new and _wonderful_.

“You like that,” Dean says, kissing Castiel before he can answer, then moving down to his neck, licking one nipple – Castiel arches his back – and smoothing a thumb over the other.

“Yes,” Castiel says breathlessly, finding his voice.

Dean rolls his whole body against Castiel, sinuous and beautiful, green eyes glazed and focused on Castiel at the same time. “Oh!” Castiel lets loose, another new sensation as he feels Dean’s hips – Dean’s cock – press against his own.

Then Dean stops. “Wait, wait,” he gasps, and tugs down his boxers, then Castiel’s, so it is skin against skin, and Castiel’s suddenly sweating. Dean gets back on top of him with another open kiss, and it’s more intense, Dean and Castiel and Castiel’s body responding all at once, dizzying sensations flying everywhere, it takes Castiel a moment to take a breath and regain some control.

He mimics Dean’s action, that slow roll, and feels Dean press into him hard in response, mouth opening, an uncontrolled reaction, and Dean huffs out a laugh into his skin, turns it into a gentle bite across Castiel’s collar bone. Castiel runs his hands up Dean’s sides, sweat-slick beneath his fingers, and Dean thrusts, Castiel counter-thrusts, and they’re moving, pleasure ratcheting higher and higher, Castiel knows he’s making all sorts of noises and Dean is whispering in his ear, “Come on, come on,” not impatiently, but a sweet encouragement.

The pressure and the slide of cocks makes Castiel almost dizzy, and then he comes, a flare of white light and totally insensate save for the pleasure.

The world returns with Dean on top of him, breathing heavily, a sticky mess between them. Castiel wraps his arms around Dean tightly, and pants, slowly decreasing, taking huge breaths, and Dean is doing the same, lips at Castiel’s chest for a second, then raising up to a kiss on Castiel’s lips, wet and relaxed.

“What was that?”

“Sex?” Castiel says without thinking.

Dean laughs into his neck, then raises his head to meet Castiel’s eyes. “That light.”

“Oh.” Castiel considers. “That must have been me.”

“I’d say,” Dean says, and shifts his body off of Castiel and to the side, never breaking their gaze, a smirk settling in his face. He wipes his stomach, then Castiel’s, cleaning his hand in the sheets. “That’s a new one in my book.”

Castiel realizes he’s never discussed sex with those angels who’ve had it, and wonders if that lack of control is normal. “I think my true form slipped out for a second,” he confesses.

Dean eyes him, breathing silently for almost half a minute. Castiel waits, stares back, knows he’s staring and doesn’t care. He likes how close they are, that they’re still touching. Dean’s eyes flit over Castiel’s face, then he asks, “Can you show me your wings?”

Castiel blinks, surprised.

“I mean, is that allowed?” Dean looks suddenly uncertain, but he doesn’t withdraw this time. Instead, he leans in; he’s secure in how he feels, how _Castiel_ feels.

“Yes,” Castiel says, always yes. He doesn’t move; the wings are translucent when he brings them out, and they seem to solidify, but his right wing still passes harmlessly through the bed, until Castiel rises to a sitting position, still naked, wings flared behind him. Dean’s mouth hangs open slightly, and he stares.

Castiel’s never bothered to ask a fallen one without grace what wings look like, without seeing the tracing of grace. “What do you see?” Castiel asks.

Dean sits up, reaches over Castiel’s shoulder with one hand, presses into the wing. Castiel feels it with a shudder, the faint traces of grace in Dean making him able to touch them. “They’re black,” Dean says, blinking rapidly. Then he laughs, a little self-consciously, hand drawing back. “I guess I was expecting them to be white.”

“Most angels do have white wings, as human understand ‘white’,” Castiel says. “One of the few things human culture got right, actually.”

Dean cocks his head. “Can I?” And reaches out again.

Castiel settles closer, stretching his wings out wide, flight feathers extending. Dean buries both hands in the wing closest to him, a look of fascination on his face. It feels slightly strange to Castiel, he can feel Dean’s touch, but it’s grace to grace; he’s never done that before. He didn’t know it was possible. He feels what Dean is feeling when he touches him – joy, happiness, a sense of being _given_ something. And it feels wonderful, as intimate as the sex had been.

“The black is shot through with silver,” Dean says. “Is that what they look like to you?”

“They have always been black,” Castiel says, confused. Black that glows, that shines.

“Why are yours black, and not others?”

Castiel hesitates. “Lucifer took it as a sign of importance, though even one other, myself, having the same color dimmed that idea a bit.”

Dean pauses in the midst of stroking Castiel’s wing. “Lucifer, really? I mean, he’s real?”

Castiel smiles. “He’s an angel, Dean, as real as the rest of us.”

“Are his shot with silver?”

Castiel looks at his own wings carefully, using both sights; human and grace. Dean’s right - the silver is there, faintly, visible in a way the rest of his wings are not. “No. Mine didn’t used to be, either.” How had he never noticed? “The silver are scars.”

“Michael’s an asshole,” Dean mutters, correctly guessing the source. He shoots Castiel a smile. “I like your wings,” he confides. He strokes the upward curve of the wing, hand falling into the flight feathers. Pleasure shifts through Castiel.

He shivers, and smiles, wings tilting towards Dean.

“I never would have guessed,” Dean says.

“What?”

“You’re a sensualist.”

Castiel considers that. “What do they feel like to you? I feel the touch of your grace, your emotions.”

Dean blinks, then says, “Feathers. Warmth. Just … warmth.”

Castiel wonders what it will be like when or if they both have their grace. Angels hardly ever mate.

Another stroke through his wings, almost a pet, and Dean says, “You’ll, uh.” He stops there, but there’s something in his eyes and, for once, Castiel is able to read the shadows.

“I’m an angel, Dean. Eternity is a concept with which I am very familiar.”

A spark lights in Dean’s eyes, and Castiel realizes he was embarrassed to ask, but _needed_ to ask. Castiel doesn’t know where this mark comes from, echoing in Dean since they met, but perhaps Castiel can lay it to rest. Perhaps he has from the beginning, always trying not to fail Dean.

A few moments of comfortable silence pass, then Dean lets go of Castiel’s wing, leaning back, and then abruptly moving forward and giving Castiel a kiss. “You can make’em disappear,” Dean says, sighing, regretful. “I had a dream last night, which I’m sure you’ll want to hear about.”

Castiel shifts his wings away, straightening. “A memory?”

Dean nods. “I think so.” He stares thoughtfully at the empty space where Castiel’s wings were, then continues, “And it was here, on earth. I was with someone else, don’t know who, but the main thing was the crates. It was like a storage facility or something.”

“That’s – interesting.” It occurs to Castiel this could be why Michael’s forces are after him so intently. “Was there anything else?”

Dean nods again. “I think I know where it is.”

\-----------------------------

Balthazar and Ceria are still gone when they leave. Castiel is not very surprised by this – he expected hunting down possible locations of the angels they both know to be time consuming. He has no way of contacting them and telling them to return early, cell phones still unsafe, and Castiel has no way of knowing how little or how much time they have to find the place Dean remembers. Castiel leaves a brief note and they move quickly.

In the end, it takes them a matter of hours. Dean remembers the name on a street sign and that the storage facility is large. They went to every street by that name, Castiel’s flight quick and sure, and they find the storage facility on the fourteenth trip.

Dean looks up, squinting, then around. The sun is bright, casting a glare but giving little warmth. The place is just off an urban area, accounting for the size and location of the storage facility. “Yeah, I think this might be it.”

 _Golden Storage_ , the sign proclaims, along with various price points.

“I assume we’re breaking in,” Dean adds.

“Of course,” Castiel says.

Dean grins. “I like the way you think.”

“It’s expediency,” Castiel responds.

Dean snorts, then starts walking along the concrete, stopping at a gate. Castiel briefly rests his hand on Dean’s shoulder, and they are inside. “I remember the number on it – A532.”

They wander down until they find it. It’s the large, probably the largest unit on site. Castiel moves up to the metal door, eyes the chain and lock keeping the door shut and to the floor. He passes his hand over the metal, trying to sense if there are any traps. He senses hiding sigils, but nothing dangerous. Which in itself is unusual.

“What?” Dean’s voice is abruptly close to him, and Castiel turns, startled. They’re inches apart, and Dean smiles.

Castiel withdraws. “I don’t sense anything dangerous.”

“Isn’t that good?”

“Not really,” Castiel says wryly. “If this is important, why is not better protected?”

“You mean the fact that there are no traps means it’s a trap?” Dean raises an eyebrow.

Castiel frowns. “I find everything suspicious when it comes to Michael.” He looks at the door again. “And you don’t remember any details.”

“I’ll go first,” Dean offers.

“You’ll do no such thing,” Castiel retorts, eyes narrowing.

Dean throws up his hands. “Fine, whatever. But I’m telling you, I didn’t remember anything that would blow us to bits, and I think I would have.”

“You can’t even remember the conversation you had, or who you were talking to.” Castiel sighs. “But I suppose there’s no point in delaying. Stand back, Dean.”

Dean backs up two feet, and raises his chin.

Castiel kneels, pops the lock open and undoes the chain, grabbing the handle and pulling upwards. The door moves with a loud creaking noise, and Castiel looks into the unit.

Storage crates, just like Dean said, all grouped in the center of the space. Maybe twenty boxes in all, most fairly large, surrounded by the heaviest warding of invisibility Castiel has ever seen.

“Impressive scribbles,” Dean comments, looking over Castiel’s shoulder, close enough Castiel feels the warmth of his body; he shuts down the urge to lean back into it.

“Very impressive,” Castiel says without a hint of irony. He takes a few steps in, carefully looks at the walls. But there’s nothing; it’s only on the floor around the crates. No supernatural dangers, he realizes. He takes another look, searching for more human traps – mines, bombs, video cameras. He doesn’t see any sign of that, though, and he’s knows such means are fairly recent. Dean fell twenty-one years ago – this storage unit must be at least that old. He turns to Dean. “Remember anything?”

Dean shrugs. “Looks familiar, but that’s it.”

Castiel takes one last look, then walks forward and picks a crate. He hears Dean follow him as he uses his angelic strength to heave off the top, nails that screwed it popping out of the creaking wood.

Inside lies a long piece of wood. A staff.

“I don’t get it,” Dean says, sounding confused.

Castiel traces the length of it, smooth from years of handling, years of use. “Dean,” he breathes. “It’s the staff of Moses.”

A moment of silence. “Seriously?”

Castiel’s mouth has gone dry. Nineteen other boxes. He knows what this is. “When God was still … active, He created objects for those who followed him to use, instruments of His divine will. Heaven’s weapons, Dean. These objects possess great power, even to angels.” He stares into Dean’s green eyes. “This is why Michael wanted you dead.”

Dean casts a look over the crates. “Enough power to stop him?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel admits. “I don’t think so. But enough to defend ourselves, and earth? Yes, if the rest hold what I think they do.”

“What do you mean, earth?”

Castiel is confused for a split second, then realizes Dean doesn’t know; he doesn’t remember Michael’s orders, and even in their discussions those orders never came up. “Remember when I said our orders began to make no sense?”

“Yeah,” Dean says cautiously.

“Michael’s orders were to hasten the end, Dean. The end of everything.”

“The – the apocalypse? Are you serious?” Dean steps back. But there’s something there, like it’s clicking in Dean’s head. Instincts, apparently less deeply buried than memory. “Fuck.”

Castiel waits.

“You said archangels have nearly absolute power,” Dean says slowly. “Why doesn’t Michael just, you know, kaboom? End the world?”

“Because in his head, that’s not the way it’s supposed to happen. Michael is very attached to that. The world ends because Lucifer is freed.”

“Orders not making sense,” Dean mutters, still looking gob smacked. “Lucifer,” he spits next.

“Yes. Ordering us to do certain actions to weaken seals, among other things. It became clear what was going on. That hasn’t stopped, but his plans have been … delayed, as a result of our rebellion. He has to deal with us before he can safely start the end.”

“Dude, I thought you were just using this world in your battle, but that isn’t it, is it?”

“No. Not that our actions are entirely altruistic.” Castiel shrugs. “Our last command given by God was to help humanity. Michael thinks ending the world is the way. We don’t, loosely speaking.”

“Loosely?”

“It’s not an objective we’re obsessed with at the moment. We have more immediate concerns, such as the survival of the network, and saving those who fall. Though our efforts at killing demons has made the part of the apocalypse that is to be constructed by Lucifer’s side more difficult, and, like I said, Michael’s portion cannot continue while we are free.”

Dean licks his lips and swallows, staring at the crates. “How was I involved? Why are they here?”

“I don’t know. Why would Michael risk weakening himself this way?” Castiel shakes his head. “Michael must have been the other person you were speaking to.”

“Then they – he – me, _God_ this is fucked, must have been planning something, right?” Dean walks to a crate, starts trying to pry it open with his bare hands.

Castiel silently takes over, wood snapping. There’s a crystal inside, one that turns people to salt.

Dean stares down at it, hands clasping the sides of the crate. “I don’t _remember_ this.”

“Your memories will come back, Dean.” He gently removes Dean’s hands from the crate, looks at the palms. There’s splinters in them, and Castiel scratches them out one by one, healing the small punctures, Dean still.

“You gonna keep these here?” Dean asks, gesturing with his chin at the crates.

“No,” Castiel decides. “There’s no way of knowing if this is still a safe place or not. Or why Michael didn’t move them when you originally fell.”

“Didn’t know it was me who fell, maybe?”

“Maybe,” Castiel says. Or Dean was meant to fall, and the rest of events were unplanned – Dean not remembering because maybe he chooses not to, Dean the fallen, Dean the spy who isn’t. If he was a spy, it’s backfired. Dean looks up at Castiel with a small smile, emotion clear in his eyes even as he takes his hand away. “I’ll move them somewhere safe, known to only me and Anna,” Castiel adds, hands dropping.

“That’s a good idea,” Dean says. “I’m glad this will, y’know, help.” He waves his hand to gesture at something, Castiel doesn’t know. “Since I’ve caused so much trouble.”

“It’s worth it,” Castiel says, and he’s not referring to the weapons at all. “It has been since the beginning,” he adds, for clarity’s sake.

“Yeah, I know,” Dean says, eyes clear.

Castiel eyes him a moment longer. “When I am weak, you make me strong,” Castiel says. “Every time, you have given me something.” The work of God, it fits so perfectly. “I don’t know how you do that.”

Dean laughs uncomfortably. “I don’t either,” he says, looking a bit puzzled.

Castiel lets it go. “I’ll take you back to Balthazar’s safehouse, then move these,” he says. These items will need nothing but secrecy, so he knows a few places that would work. “Perhaps to somewhere Anna also knows. This could help us immensely, especially with the network so scattered now.”

Dean nods. “Gotcha. See you later.”

Castiel brings Dean back to the safehouse and barely waits a second before returning. He leaves the wards of invisibility intact, studying them for several minutes so he can recreate them as necessary. He spreads his senses but, still, there’s nothing.

He takes them to a safehouse abandoned years ago, by Anna. It was never compromised, it was just safer to move frequently, back when it was the two of them. It’s a cabin in Alaska, covered by years of snowfall, never dug out. When he appears with a crate, his breath almost immediately freezes. It’s cold enough Castiel can feel it without trying, kind of like Dean. He blinks that thought away and begins checking the wards, all of which are intact. Snow is as preserving as the deep desert, in its own way. The cabin is small, a collapsed bed and unusable kitchen with a low ceiling, slightly claustrophobic. Castiel shoves everything to the walls and begins recreating the sigils he’d seen on the storage unit floor, careful and checking his work.

He brings all the crates in, one by one.

At the nineteenth, when he reappears, instinct more than his senses tells him to duck, and an angel’s blade flies over his head, embedding itself into the concrete wall of the unit. Castiel turns, taking out his own blade.

It’s Balthazar. He stands there, at ease, and he gives Castiel a crooked grin, and says, “Worth a try.” He raises a hand and his blade jerks out of the wall and flies back to him.

“But you killed Zachariah,” Castiel says, throat tight.

Balthazar shrugs lightly. “It’s a complicated dance, Cas.”

Dean. God, _Dean_. He left Dean at the safehouse. He clenches his hand around his blade, sweating. “Did you hurt Dean?”

Balthazar pauses, half-smiles. It’s a familiar smile, the one that means Balthazar thinks Castiel is being foolish. “I’ll make you a deal. Dean’s life for the weapons. You’re not making it out of here alive, but he’s not dead yet.”

If Castiel dies, Anna can still find the weapons, as it stands. But then Dean … Balthazar could be lying, and Dean is already dead. “Balthazar, don’t do this.” He’s pleading, uselessly, again.

“I obey my orders,” Balthazar says matter-of-factly. “Family, Cas. Family first.”

“Dean and I aren’t family? Ceria isn’t family?”

Balthazar looks down for a second, something sad in his blue eyes. “You are. But you betrayed us.”

“Michael betrayed us. You _know_ that, Balthazar.”

“Michael loves us,” Balthazar retorts. “I get what happened to you was hard, but it was for the rest of us, to keep us safe.”

“Or enslaved,” Castiel answers, shifting his feet, letting his shoulders relax. “If it was right, doing what he did, why am I here? Why was I brought back?”

“I don’t have the answer to that,” Balthazar says calmly. “But unlike you, I don’t need it. Decision time, Cas. The weapons or Dean’s life?”

“I think the answer is clear,” Castiel says. He doesn’t know if Dean and Ceria are still alive; he doesn’t know why Balthazar chose now to betray them; he does know he cannot betray the network. “You have to die.”

Balthazar looks contemplative for a second. “I thought you might say that.” And he attacks.

Castiel’s almost too slow to avoid the strike at his throat, the edge of the blade almost contacting skin. Balthazar slashes through the air again, lightning-fast, and catches the side of Castiel’s stomach, Castiel stumbling back in response. Balthazar comes from above, and Castiel parries the blow with his blade, the sound ringing briefly. Balthazar shifts his grip on his blade, breathing lightly, expression intent as it so rarely is.

They do not speak.

Balthazar circles Castiel, moving himself in front of the door. Castiel realizes he’s planning on pushing Castiel into the wall, so he has nowhere left to run, save to fly, and something like that so close, Balthazar would be on his back in a second.

There’s one crate left. Balthazar is ignoring it.

Castiel has no idea what’s inside. He didn’t check. He’s regretting that now.

Balthazar approaches again, slicing low, and Castiel has to back up again, until he hits the wall – Balthazar kicks him, and the concrete behind Castiel crumbles as Castiel gasps for air. Balthazar moves again, slicing high and Castiel ducks, hearing the blade hit the concrete and score it, even as Castiel rolls away, bouncing to his feet and using the spare second he has to open the crate.

Balthazar mutters a curse as Castiel reaches inside and grabs blindly, and moves fast, closer.

It’s an angel sword, Castiel catching several fingers on the blade, burning, then grabbing the hilt with a bloody hand, almost slipping out of his grasp. Balthazar’s on him, and Castiel swipes blindly with his own blade, forcing Balthazar to back up to dodge, before bringing the other out.

It looks identical to Castiel’s, but it isn’t. Castiel feels it as soon as he touches it – it belongs to an archangel, only four of these in existence.

“That’s not yours,” Balthazar growls, but there’s a new wariness in his eyes.

Castiel feels the pulse of power coming from the blade, echoes of the archangel who wielded it, so damned _familiar_. Energy nestles in his spine, springing from the blade.

There’s tense stillness, then Balthazar comes at him again, careful but quick, going for Castiel’s injured side. Castiel blocks with his own blade and swings with the other, Balthazar grabbing Castiel’s wrist and trying to twist the weapon out of his grip. Castiel kicks, and Balthazar loses his grip, freeing Castiel, who doesn’t waste a moment, stabbing with the archangel blade and getting Balthazar’s shoulder.

Balthazar grunts, tries to grab the hilt, but Castiel pulls it out with such force he actually loses it for a second, blood slippery, and Balthazar’s blade moves to Castiel’s throat, cutting.

Castiel feels the pain, but sees Balthazar’s arm extended. Castiel goes beneath, knife slipping away from his throat, and stabs Balthazar in the heart. A light settles in Balthazar’s eyes, the dying flare of grace. Castiel stumbles back, hand on his throat, blood pouring from beneath his palm.

Light bursts out of Balthazar’s body, leaving black in its wake, in the shape of wings.

Castiel’s coughing blood, but he’s not dead. _Dean_.

He leaves the empty crate, the blood and his friend’s body. He grips the archangel blade carefully, then spreads his wings and flies back to Balthazar’s safehouse.

He appears in the kitchen, tile cold beneath the hand still holding the archangel blade, and immediately sees Dean, sitting on a couch. He sees Dean get up and run to him, saying something but it’s all blank silence, and then Dean is there with him, safe, alive, concerned but _alive_.

Castiel tries to speak, can’t quite manage it.

Sound suddenly filters in, weirdly distorted. “Cas! Cas, what happened? Are you okay?” Dean presses his own hands against Castiel’s throat, then calls out, “Ceria! Ceria!”

She’s there, suddenly, not even bothering to run whatever distance, is just standing in front of him, wings spread. They fold and she kneels. “Who did this?”

“Bal,” is all Castiel can get out.

Ceria’s face goes ashen and still.

“Search,” Castiel adds hoarsely, pointing at the rooms. They need to get out of here, but they need to see if Balthazar left anything first.

She nods, rises, and is gone.

Castiel lets go of the archangel blade, and Dean sweeps it out of the way with a foot, twitching when he makes contact. He’s still got his hands on Castiel’s throat, which Castiel gently removes. He looks over Dean, Dean’s pale face and starkly green eyes, staring into Castiel’s own.

“It was Balthazar?” Dean asks, shifting his grip to Castiel’s shoulders, half holding him up.

Castiel nods.

“Fuck,” Dean says, a neat summation. “What’d he want, the weapons? No, don’t answer that, you probably can’t anyway.”

Castiel gives him a wry look. Then he gestures at Dean and the house.

“What happened here?” Dean guesses, and Castiel gives another nod. “Dunno. I was outside, since I realized the grounds were covered with wards and safe. Ceria came out and talked to me, said Balthazar read your note and went to see some errand.” Dean pauses. “She said he looked for me first.”

Castiel closes his eyes briefly, relief surging that Dean had, by the grace of God, not been in the house. Balthazar must have been frantic when he realized that Castiel and Dean had found the storage unit. This means that Balthazar knew who Dean was. He probably wanted to act earlier, but couldn’t without revealing himself, not with Castiel and then Ceria being with him constantly.

“You know, you really look like you’re about to bleed out,” Dean says, bloody hands twitching to do something.

Castiel takes his hands and holds them, breathing as best he can. _I’ll be fine_ , he tries to say with his eyes, but he knows his grip on Dean is tight, probably bruising.

Decades with Balthazar. Decades.

Ceria returns. “I took anything that looked of interest, and dumped them at my safehouse. Is that where you want to go?”

Castiel nods. He lets go of Dean’s hands and points at the archangel blade. Ceria picks it warily, eyeing it briefly before looking at Castiel, who holds out a hand.

She takes it. “I’ll take both of you,” she says, and then does just that, moving both Castiel and Dean.

They appear in a large room, one wall made of windows, like Balthazar’s, but this one looks into a city, a clear view of skyscrapers. New York, Castiel guesses. They must be in an apartment. There’s a bed near the window, a small kitchen, and the rest is empty.

“It’s safe,” Ceria says. “It’s heavily warded.”

The walls are covered in them, neat and geometric. Castiel gives her a nod of thanks.

Dean moves to Castiel’s side and puts one hand under his arm, lifting him, and half-drags him to the bed, sitting him down. Ceria follows with a damp washcloth, which she hands to Dean, who presses it against Castiel’s throat. Castiel covers Dean’s hands with his own.

Dean stares at him intently. “You are not okay,” he states. Then he suddenly moves closer, one hand shifts to his cheek, thumb stroking along his cheekbone. Castiel blinks, and Dean says softly, explaining, “You’re crying.”

Castiel lets out a huff of breath, surprised. Then he says to himself, _do it_. He leans in close and lays his head on Dean’s shoulder. Dean’s startled-still, then he wraps an arm around Castiel’s back. “I get it,” Dean says softly. “I get it.”

He can see Ceria out of the corner of his eye, and knows that he must look weak right now, but is unable to stop himself. This one hurt. More than he expected it would, far past the sting of betrayal into something else. Balthazar had been with the network the longest, out of those in Castiel’s cell. Two traitors, two spies. Ceria fallen, and so trusted. Her and Dean, that’s all he has left.

Anna. He must tell Anna. About both Balthazar and the weapons. Weeks is too long to wait, not knowing how many other spies there are, not knowing if Balthazar was able to transmit to someone the people he and Ceria found.

Dean’s hand moves in a circle on Castiel’s back.

Castiel opens his eyes, noticing they were closed, and without moving away from Dean gestures that he wants to write something.

Ceria is already prepared, handing him a notepad and pen.

He writes with so much force the paper dips and crinkles. _Go back and find everyone you spoke to, if they’re not already scattered._

“I’ll do that,” Ceria says. “Anything else?”

 _Be safe._

“Always, Castiel,” she says. Hesitates, and adds, “I didn’t know either, and I had no real suspicions, unlike you. About either of them.”

Castiel appreciates the sentiment, but she’s not cell leader. Castiel is a fool.

Ceria eyes him a moment longer, then turns to Dean. “Take care of him, okay?”

He feels Dean’s nod, and she flies. Castiel puts the pen and notepad down.

“You know, since I’ve met you, I don’t think I’ve had a second of quiet,” Dean says wryly into Castiel’s hair, breath warm, hand still moving. He’s got his other hand on Castiel’s knee, a solid weight.

Castiel knows what he’s trying to do, and appreciates it, but the hurt is still there, dulled to an ache, not at all physical.

He feels and hears Dean’s sigh. Dean withdraws a bit, to look at Castiel. “Looks like you’ve stopped bleeding. You up to standing?”

Castiel nods, wondering what Dean is doing.

“C’mon,” Dean says, pulling him up and to a door Castiel hadn’t noticed. It leads to a bathroom, and Dean efficiently strips Castiel of all this clothing, holds him a second to make sure he’ll stay standing, and then strips himself. He turns the shower on, tests the water, and pulls Castiel into the shower, ducking his head into the stream briefly before turning to Castiel, shifting them around.

Castiel can’t even remember the last time he had a shower. He starts when the hot water hits him, stinging the wound in his side a little. He’s facing away from the shower head, water hitting his back. He looks into Dean’s calm and certain eyes.

“You may not smell, but showers are still God’s gift to humanity,” Dean says, half-smile, sad again.

Castiel reaches out and touches Dean’s lips, wishing he could undo that.

Dean blinks, then turns him around, hands on Castiel’s shoulder blades, hand smoothing away the water, carefully skirting his injured side. “Feels good, huh?” Dean says.

It does, oddly enough. Castiel dips his head into the stream of water, carefully touching the edges of his wound. It’s healing, faster than he thought it would, still painful but closing. He opens his eyes to see swirls of red going around the drain. Dean, standing there with him, washing away the blood. He reaches back blindly, grabs one of Dean’s hands, and turns around.

Droplets of water fall from Dean’s eyelashes. Castiel touches his shoulder, his neck, and then their mouths meet, like it was practiced. Dean’s careful, shy, a lighter touch then before.

Castiel doesn’t want that. He grabs Dean by the hips and pulls him forward, a surprised breath falling into Castiel’s mouth, and Dean’s half-hard already. Castiel isn’t, but he pushes into the curve of Dean’s body anyway, artless with want.

One of Dean’s hands moves between their bodies, skimming along Castiel’s stomach before taking hold of his cock, giving it a firm stroke.

Castiel gasps, pleasure shuddering through him. He tries to say Dean’s name, but a short hurt sound comes out instead.

Dean breaks away, looking concerned. “Cas?”

“More,” Castiel whispers into Dean’s ear, pushing close again.

Dean breathes, then kisses him, tongue sliding into Castiel’s mouth, playing along his teeth, while his hand moves, stroking again and again, pleasure pooling in Castiel’s stomach, flowing through his body. He can feel his pulse rise, tense and excited and touching Dean, Dean’s skin hot against his. He touches Dean all over, aimless, wanting to return Dean’s skill.

Dean’s breathing hard, and he breaks the kiss, pushing Castiel against the tile wall, shoving the shower head out of the way so the stream of water falls on the bathroom floor. “Sorry,” he gasps out, and kisses Castiel again, who moans.

He strokes Castiel again, and Castiel is fully hard now, aroused beyond speaking, and Dean rubs his cock against Castiel’s thigh, and Castiel hears himself let loose a high whimper into their kiss.

He wants to reach out, respond, but pleasure flares suddenly, heat sparking from his throat and side, and then it whites out.

He comes to sitting in the bathtub, Dean somehow behind him, Castiel’s head lying on his shoulder, a bit of pain from his throat because his head is tilted back. “Awake?” Dean murmurs.

“Yeah. Yes,” Castiel says, voice still hoarse. He twitches his body, realizes Dean is still and soft against his back, legs spread around Castiel’s body. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. That was hot,” Dean says, playful, nipping Castiel’s ear. “Never had someone pass out on me before.” He pauses. “You feeling any better?”

“Hmm,” is all Castiel says. He does, pleasure leaving a strange emptiness behind, filled only by Dean’s touch. He skims his hands along Dean’s legs, the short hairs plastered against his legs, an interesting texture to his fingertips.

Dean twitches, like he’s ticklish. “C’mon, we better get up. Get you into bed.”

He moves back, gets up, and half-pulls Castiel to his feet. He steps out of the bathtub, turning the water off, and Castiel follows. The bathroom floor is one giant puddle, and Castiel sees that most of their clothing is soaked.

“Whoops,” Dean says. But he keeps pulling Castiel, taking his wrist and moving him back to the window, heedless of nudity. He takes Castiel to the bed, throws back the covers and sits him down. Feeling weirdly passive, Castiel slips under the sheets, pushing the pillow away. Dean follows, hand hovering over Castiel’s injured side for a second. “You okay?”

Castiel nods.

Dean curls into bed with him, pulling the sheets over them both, Castiel placing his head on Dean’s arm, arms pulled up and hands loose, barely touching Dean’s side, fingernails inching along smooth skin. “Don’t wanna scare Ceria,” Dean remarks, tugging the sheets.

Ceria would not be scared by nudity, but he doesn’t say that. He just nods again.

He closes his eyes, and rests.

\-----------------------------

Castiel feels the displacement of air when Ceria comes back. It startles him, and his eyes open, throat working, swallowing. The action does not come with pain. He flails a second, then touches his throat. It’s nearly smooth, something like a scar remaining, though even that should fade.

Dean sits up, blocking Castiel’s view for a second, all he can see is Dean’s back muscles, moving beneath skin.

Ceria walks into view, head tilted, eyes full of curiosity. “I warned as many as I found,” she says. “Do I need to get you two clothes?”

“Er, yeah,” Dean admits, carefully pulling the sheets up a little bit.

She smiles, a little sadly, but the happiness mixed in is genuine. “Glad to see you well, Castiel.”

One hand still on his throat, Castiel nods. Then he tries, “Thank you.” It still comes out a bit hoarse, but it doesn’t hurt and smoothes out on the last syllable. Ceria watches as him as he does it, appearing satisfied.

Ceria shifts away.

Dean flops backwards and turns to Castiel. He stares at him for a long second, sighs, and says, “Fuck.” Then, “Are you okay?”

Castiel touches his throat.

“Not that,” Dean says, waving a hand in dismissal.

Castiel nods, then says, “Yes.” He is. The pain has dulled to an ache. The feeling of being a fool has not. He sits up, fingers skimming along Dean’s leg.

Dean twitches, says, “Don’t think we have time for that.”

Castiel smiles. “I was just – “ He stops.

Dean nods, reaction delayed.

Ceria pops in with three bags, then heads to the bathroom, to give Dean and Castiel privacy, Castiel assumes. Or maybe clean the bathroom, Castiel’s not entirely sure. Dean gets up, starts pulling on jeans, and then stops, takes them off, and hands them to Castiel. They fit, and Dean checks the sizes of the shirts.

It’s midday now, early afternoon. Castiel walks over to the window, lays his hand on the glass. It’s cold, and his breath fogs it.

He hears Dean moving, and goes to join him, peeking into the last bag. It’s full of fresh food, and Ceria comes out of the bathroom, takes the bag, and begins carefully placing items throughout the kitchen. Castiel and Dean silently help, though Castiel has to stop and think about where such items would ordinarily go. In between moving cans into cupboards, she asks, “So what did Balthazar do? Did he say anything?”

He freezes, holding a bag of organic apples. “Not much,” he says. “Appeared while I was moving crates and tried to kill me. Then he tried to bargain the crates for Dean’s life.”

Dean starts at this, spinning around from the refrigerator to face him. “What did you do?”

“It became apparent I would need to kill Balthazar,” Castiel says calmly.

Ceria looks between the two of them, before settling her gaze on Castiel. “How did he know where the storage locker was?”

“He must have been the other person that I was talking to in the memory,” Dean blurts. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“You’re a spy,” Ceria says, even and sharp, hands flat on the tile countertop. She makes no move to reach for a weapon. “You just don’t remember it.”

“I am not a spy!” Dean snarls immediately.

Castiel tenses.

“Then why fall?” Ceria asks, turning to Castiel, watching his reaction, calculating. “How would you know about the stash?”

“I don’t know, maybe I knew what Michael was up and then fell, because it was the only way out.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened,” Castiel adds, relief at another explanation surging through him.

“Perhaps,” Ceria says. “But we have failed to see traitors in our midst before.”

That stings. “But Dean fell,” Castiel says. “No spy has ever fallen. It’s too big a risk. Even if Dean were a spy, his human self and memory counts as much as his angelic one.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, seizing upon Castiel’s words. “It’s called _free_ will, you know.”

Ceria blinks. “Yes,” she says dryly. “Our central trait.”

Free to choose Michael, if it came to that. Castiel can see the thought on her face, and his exhale is shaky. He looks at Dean, sees anger and frustration, but also an earnestness, a desire to be believed.

“I choose you,” Dean says, as if he sees it, then he halts and carefully adds, “I choose Cas.”

Castiel takes a step closer to him, to take his hand.

“Girl,” Dean murmurs into his ear, but doesn’t let go. Castiel briefly wants to question this assertion that Dean makes so often (Castiel is obviously in a male form), but doesn’t.

He turns to see Ceria watching, thoughtful. Her eyes note their physical contact, and she says, “Always do so, and there will be no conflict.” But there’s skepticism lurking, even as she changes the topic. “Then why did Balthazar kill Zachariah? Zachariah is Michael’s second.”

“To keep his cover?” Dean suggests.

“A cover he breaks almost immediately,” Castiel points out.

Dean shrugs. “Yeah, but he didn’t hurt Ceria or me, so obviously he intended on coming back and acting like things were fine. He planned on playing us, taking over while you just disappear.”

“He was completely normal when we were contacting cell members that we knew,” Ceria says, grabbing the bag of apples and splitting it open, handling several apples before taking one and biting into it. “Your note was what spurred him into action.”

“Then things must have been going according to plan, until the storage unit,” Castiel says. But what plan? To let Castiel lead him to Anna and the archangel?

“Anna,” Ceria says.

“You know her?” Dean asks, surprised.

“I’m fallen,” Ceria says. She hands Dean an apple. Dean’s face goes still, then he takes it with a nod, letting go of Castiel. “All of the fallen meet Anna, when we regain our grace. Castiel was there, too, since he found my grace.”

“So the attacks were designed to allow Balthazar access to higher-up cell members,” Castiel says. “Make us panic, act stupidly.” He frowns, kicks himself mentally. “I should have seen that.”

Ceria raises an eyebrow. “That’s what I’m for.”

“Thank you, Ceria,” and it’s only the smallest part dry.

Dean’s face is still, then he says, “Balthazar killed Zachariah so you would trust him. That’s why he did it.”

“I’m not so sure Zachariah would willingly sacrifice himself that way,” Ceria warned.

“But it would explain the lack of support Zachariah brought,” Castiel argues.

There’s a moment of silence as they all think about that. Possibilities and guesses based on incomplete information are not trustworthy, but Michael’s forces are and always have been a giant blank spot in terms of understanding Michael’s planning. Why he moves so fiercely in some areas, like in preventing falling, and not in others, like using the human world as a weapon, is confusing and often considered to amount to arrogance. This latest attack makes Castiel think it might be otherwise.

“So, what, their whole plan is gone?” Dean asks uncertainly.

“No,” Castiel says immediately. “I don’t think so. If that was the case, what is the point of the storage unit? Balthazar could just call Michael down when the time came to destroy us.”

“Something is going on in heaven that we don’t know yet or don’t understand,” Ceria says, eyes unfocused.

“Our dealings with Michael’s forces have often been based on a guess, based on a supposition, based on assumption, based on another guess,” Castiel says dryly.

Dean pops in: “Your own version of enigma wrapped in a riddle, huh?”

Castiel smiles. “Dean,” he says, feeling weirdly, powerfully fond. Eyes turning to Ceria, he adds, “And there’s the sword.”

“Yes,” Ceria says. “You’re right.”

“The one you came back with?” Dean interrupts. “What about it?”

“It belongs to an archangel,” Castiel says. “Though I don’t know which one.”

“I have my guesses,” Ceria mutters.

“How many archangels are there?” Dean asks.

“Four,” Castiel answers, sharing a look with Ceria. Dean doesn’t know about theirs, yet, not his identity. No reason to reveal it now. Even heaven doesn’t know, not for certain.

“Michael, Gabriel, Raphael and Lucifer,” Ceria adds. She focuses on Castiel. “You need to find Anna, let her know what’s going on.”

Castiel nods. “I don’t know what she’s learned on her end, but it might explain things more.”

“When are you supposed to meet?”

“In a few weeks,” Castiel says. “But I don’t think we should wait that long.”

“Can you find her?” Ceria finishes her apple.

“I can try. I know her well, but I’m not sure how much she’ll tend to old patterns,” Castiel says honestly.

“Anything I can do?” Dean offers. “I can always use something to do,” he adds wryly.

Castiel shakes his head, half in amusement and half in denial, and watches Dean react to him with satisfaction – Dean’s teasing him. “No, I’m afraid you’ll have to suffer more boredom. I’ll have to go out, by myself.” He pauses. “Did you find anything interesting that Balthazar left behind?”

“No,” Ceria answers. “Or nothing that I noticed. I took anything that seemed personal, though, and emptied out a safe. It’s in the closet.”

“I’ll – I’ll look at it later.” A queasy feeling arises in Castiel’s stomach. “I trust your judgment,” he says to Ceria. _More than mine_ , he silently adds.

Ceria gives a graceful nod.

“You going out now?” Dean asks into the silence.

“I probably should,” Castiel says reluctantly. He doesn’t want to part from Dean, not yet. “I’ve recovered from my injuries.”

“Just come back soon, okay?” Dean says. He doesn’t ask to come along; Castiel’s surprised, then realizes Dean knows he’d just slow Castiel down needlessly, and they don’t have the time.

For a second, Castiel wonders if Dean will be all right with Ceria. Then he dismisses the thought – Ceria is straightforward. She’s chosen to follow Castiel’s lead for now.

“Be safe,” Ceria says. She moves, quickly, grabs the archangel sword from the table, and gives it to Castiel.

Castiel nods, hand tightening on the handle, and with one last look at Dean, who stares calmly back, he leaves.

\-----------------------------

 

Snow crunches beneath Castiel’s feet, the only sound he hears. The snow is fairly freshly fallen, leaving a world of white, trees hidden by snow, malformed into strange shapes with no part of the tree showing, but even these are parted by wide, flat distances, mountains far off.

Castiel has no reason to think Anna would be here, specifically. They’ve rarely discussed where they go when not on missions, and Castiel has no idea where the archangel is, by his own request. What Castiel does know is that Anna will be doing the same thing he was, attempting to find the spy. She’ll check in with different cells, see what they have to say and their current status. Then she’ll go somewhere to gather data and think.

That’s what made Castiel think of this place. Anna hated the snow, as a human, and she’s been carefully studied by Michael’s side, so what better place than the middle of Alaska?

Of course, Alaska’s quite large. So is Canada, for that matter.

But Castiel remembers being here once, with her. About three years after Castiel’s resurrection, Beriel fell, and she fell here. She was the first, after Castiel and Anna, to join the network. Anna knew Beriel better than Castiel did, and she would come here, to visit Beriel after she was born to into a modest family that lived in a small town nearby. This was after they realized rejoining grace to a fallen angel could be dangerous. Beriel almost died when she accidentally stumbled upon the place her grace had fallen, before they were able to save her.

Her grace still leaves a mark, though. Nothing visible, not like Anna’s – whose grace is far more powerful – it’s just consecrated holy ground.

Castiel begins to walk, trying to gain a sense of who has been here. Unlike most places, this is so remote he knows there’s no real chance of being distracted by the aura left by others. Much like how he found Dean through the black dog hunt.

She’s been here, and recently, but she’s not here now.

Castiel frowns. It was a long shot.

Time to try another.

\-----------------------------

Brazil. New Mexico. The Himalayas. Miles upon miles of sand dunes in the Sahara. A little house on a cul-de-sac.

It’s night by the time Castiel returns to Ceria’s safehouse. Dean’s at the window, where the bed used to be, whirling as soon as Castiel appears, and Ceria’s sitting on a new couch on the other side of the window, weapon in hand. She stiffens and stills just as quick, when she sees it’s only Castiel. “I’ll take you being solitary to mean you didn’t find her,” Ceria remarks.

“You are correct, unfortunately,” Castiel responds. He doesn’t quite feel tired; defeated, perhaps.

Dean comes over, smile bright. “Uneventful?”

“Yes.”

Dean nods. “Uneventful can be good.”

“Yes, but not in this case,” Castiel says. “I think I should keep looking.”

Dean takes this in, looks displeased. “You could sleep. With me. I mean, in the same bed,” Dean corrects, glancing at Ceria. “It’s after midnight, most people are asleep.” This is stated as if Castiel is like everyone else.

“Dean got you to sleep?” Ceria interrupts, leaning forward. “I knew there was a reason I should get to know you better, Dean.”

Dean’s glance backward at her is half annoyed and half confused. “Why do I get that reaction from angels?”

“Castiel is different with you,” Ceria says. She shifts her focus to Castiel, something analytic in her gaze.

Feeling uncomfortable, Castiel says, “I’ll rest, but only for a few hours.”

Dean’s shoulders relax. “Good.” He looks at Ceria. “Should, uh, we take the couch?”

“No,” Ceria says. “I don’t need sleep or rest, and I haven’t been flying all over the planet.” She smirks. “I didn’t get this couch randomly – I knew three people living in one space need furniture. Just don’t be too active while I’m around?”

Dean blushes faintly, inexplicably. “Right.”

He tugs Castiel along. Castiel supposes he isn’t too surprised by Dean’s request – he thinks that Dean has always been taking care of others, starting with his human family. Dean rarely mentions them anymore, but Castiel was well aware he thought of them often, that certain look Dean will get, like he’s looking somewhere else.

Castiel pushes off his sneakers, bits of clinging sand falling onto the wood floor, and sits down on the bed while Dean leaves to go to the bathroom, yawning.

Ceria pulls her feet up onto the couch, sitting comfortably. “I never thought I’d see you with someone, much less so quickly,” she comments.

Castiel clasps his hands together, debating how to answer. “I didn’t either,” he says at last.

“I’m glad you connected with someone,” she says quietly. “We could all see how lonely you were. I just worry about his past.”

He can’t bring himself to admit the same, though he thinks it. “I understand. Do what you feel is necessary.”

“If anyone could hold him to us, Cas, it would be you,” Ceria says.

Dean returns, scratching his head absentmindedly. “You don’t sleep?” he says to Ceria.

“Sometimes,” she says, “for relaxation. A lot of us fallen ones do. But it’s not strictly necessary. Most of us that have not fallen don’t eat or sleep, like Castiel.”

“So, Cas, you’re not just a workaholic?” Dean asks, a quirky half-smile on his face.

“Oh, he is,” Ceria says. “Trust me.”

Castiel decides they must have bonded over something while he was gone if they’re both going to tease him. “I am normal,” he protests.

Ceria snorts, inelegantly.

There’s no disagreement from Dean verbally, but he’s got a similar expression as Ceria. “And dude,” he adds, “I haven’t even known you as long as she has. Scoot over.”

Castiel scoots. He pushes the sheets away, and Dean gets in. They’re not quite touching, but Dean is facing him, expression thoughtful. Castiel moves closer, taking Dean’s hand in his own. Dean twitches and whispers, “I’m not going to cuddle in front of a _girl_.”

“You are ridiculous,” Castiel tells him, and doesn’t let go.

Dean sighs, and lets him.

Castiel ignores him, looks at Ceria instead.

The room silent, Ceria gets up and turns the light off without being asked, settling back on the couch afterwards, looking outwards into the lights of the city, still, as both Dean and Castiel fall asleep.

\-----------------------------

Castiel feels faintly drugged, waking slowly, and in fits and starts. He’s aware of being warm first, sheets around him, and flails out with his arms, touching nothing but bed. His eyes snap open to sunlight and he sits up.

He finds Dean and Ceria in the kitchen, cooking something. The smell drifts over, pleasant, and they’re talking about something in low tones he can’t quite make out.

He rubs his face and rises to his feet, the sound making Dean stop speaking, turn and smile. “Good morning, sleepyhead.”

Ceria shoots him a similar smile, quieter.

A glance at the window confirms that Castiel slept for hours more than he intended. It’s mid-morning, Castiel would guess. “Good morning,” he says politely, walking to the kitchen, peering over Dean’s shoulder. There’s two pieces of bread in the skillet, a bowl of yellow-orange liquid to the side.

“French toast,” Dean explains.

“Oh.”

“Have you had it before?” Ceria asks.

“No,” Castiel says. “Though I know what it is,” he adds deliberately, before Dean can interrupt.

Dean closes his mouth, then says, “You and Ceria get first dibs, since you never eat.”

Castiel frowns. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“It does in his head,” Ceria replies.

“Then humor me,” Dean says with a dirty look at Ceria. But not at Castiel, interestingly. He points at Castiel, then the cabinets. “Plates.”

They’re easy to find, simple white ceramic. They’re not dusty, so Castiel guesses Ceria bought them during the intervening period while she was alone here with Dean. There’s no table and no chairs, just the breakfast bar that looks over the rest of the apartment, so he puts three plates there, then goes digging for forks.

Two slices go into each plate, handily put there by Ceria.

Dean watches Castiel eat. Castiel’s used to it – it’s like Dean is judging and comparing Castiel to when they first met, hesitant communication over pizza. Food’s like the scale by which Dean measures how comfortable Castiel is.

Ceria notices. “Do you regularly bond over food?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, while Dean says, “No.” Then, Dean, considering, “Yes.”

Ceria laughs.

“Dean loves food,” Castiel says.

Dean shrugs. “It’s the only thing that hasn’t changed.” He takes another bite, purses his lips. “Though I guess if I get my grace back, even that will, huh? Won’t need to spend money on food.”

“Many fallen angels eat for pleasure,” Ceria is careful to remark, not stating the unlikelihood that Dean will ever get his grace back.

Dean grunts around a mouthful of French toast. After swallowing, “Are you leaving soon as we’re done?”

“I can’t just sit still,” Castiel says.

“Don’t suppose I could convince you to bring me with?”

“You’re safer here, with Ceria. And I’ll be moving quickly. It would be a blur to you.” He adds, “But I will come back during the day, if you prefer.”

“Nah,” Dean says with purposeful casualness. “Just, you know, if you need a break.”

“I assume you want me to remain as well,” Ceria says in the space of silence after Dean.

“Yes.” He trusts Ceria, but she has no reason to know any of Anna’s hideouts.

Ceria nods, no doubt knowing this herself. When they finish eating, she rounds up the plates and forks and dumps them into the sink.

“See you later,” Dean says. His mouth quirks. “I promise not to hit on Ceria when you’re gone.”

“Why would you hit her?” Castiel asks, concerned and puzzled, sure he’s being misled in some way.

Ceria laughs, sharp and sudden. “Make a sexual advance,” she explains.

“Oh,” Castiel says. “You shouldn’t tease me,” he says to Dean, but lighter.

“How is it you miss so much slang, Castiel?” Ceria asks.

Castiel doesn’t think his knowledge of current cultural terms is that bad, considering how rarely he deals with humans. “It is merely incomplete,” he says.

Dean smiles into his hand, then drops his hand and looks simply calm.

Deliberate, Castiel realizes. Dean’s way of looking out for him, to tease and confuse and distract.

Castiel twitches his wings, then pauses, takes a step forward and gives Dean a slow kiss, firm press into the warmth, mouth closed – Dean bites his lower lip, a light and surprising pain, and Castiel starts with a small laugh into Dean’s far more sexual response. Castiel’s breath hitches when their tongues meet, and then Dean lets him go, eyes opening; Castiel never closed his.

“Come back. You know, eventually,” is all Dean says.

Castiel smiles, can’t repress it even if he wanted to, and then spreads his wings and flies.

\-----------------------------

“I feel like the wife keeping house,” Dean grouses. It’s morning, and apparently sometime yesterday Ceria decided Dean would cook all the meals.

Ceria leans forward, eyes wide. “But you cook so well, Dean. It’d be foolish for me or Cas to take over.”

“We’ll do the dishes,” Castiel decides.

Dean’s eyes narrow. “That’s acceptable.” He gets up from the chairs before the breakfast bar that Ceria had acquired the day before, and bounces onto the couch, casual and carefree. He’s comfortable with Ceria now, though Castiel has no idea what they’ve been doing all day.

Castiel gets up, Ceria follows. There’s no dishwasher, so Castiel cleans and Ceria dries. Ceria runs her fingers around the edges of the plates before putting them in the kitchen cabinets. She sees him looking, and shrugs lightly.

When they’re done, Castiel joins Dean on the couch. He needs to go, look again, but it’s feeling more like he won’t be able to meet with Anna until the scheduled meet.

Dean shifts just so, so his thigh is touching Castiel’s. It’s a small gesture, but it’s inevitably Dean – to maintain contact through the physical, through action and not words.

Then Dean speaks up. “So, Ceria’s been telling me about past missions –“

“Only things Michael’s side would know,” Ceria murmurs, eyes flitting to meet Castiel’s.

“But how did you meet Ceria?” Dean finishes. “She keeps dodging.”

“And dodging I will continue,” Ceria says, and leaves.

Dean stares at the empty space she once filled, eyes narrowed.

“It’s not a big secret, Dean,” Castiel says. “I spent months searching for her, found her working at a Wal-Mart. She was utterly hysterical when I found her – so out of character for her angelic self. She didn’t remember until I forced her to remember, knowing only that she was hunted and thinking she was crazy. But she didn’t regret falling at all, and didn’t regret remembering. She didn’t have a human family, as she was raised as an orphan, and so we were … like coming home.”

“She must have liked knowing she always had a family,” Dean says after a few seconds, staring off into the distance.

Castiel nods. “Yes. I think in some ways, she is more of a warrior now than she was when she existed only as an angel.”

Dean looks over. “Are you going?”

“Not just yet,” Castiel says. He sighs.

“Hey, you’ll find her,” Dean says, voice certain. “And there’s still the meet, if you don’t.”

“What if I wanted to stay with you until then, and stop looking?”

He’s surprised Dean. He can see it in Dean’s eyes. “Okay,” Dean says. “Or I could go with you.”

“That wouldn’t be safe,” Castiel says.

“Why? You haven’t come across any of Michael’s soldiers.”

The chances of that happening are unlikely. Castiel has been choosing places he knows Michael’s side is completely ignorant of – perhaps that is a mistake. “Doesn’t mean it can’t happen.”

Dean sighs, this time. “Yes, so I’ve heard. I think I could use a little action. Your protective act is annoying."

“It is based on concern.”

“And I still feel useless,” Dean retorts.

“Heaven’s weapons are the greatest advantage we have since the network was first created, Dean.” Since the archangel who took their side.

“So you say. Still don’t remember them.” Dean shakes his head. “If you want to stay, you know, you can. But don’t do it on account of me.”

It’s equally on account of Dean as it is Castiel himself. “Why not?”

“It’s for our family, right?” It is stated plainly, and Castiel is startled. “For all of us, for a chance that time can’t be wasted. That’s why you’re looking.”

Castiel gets up, walks over to the closet, where he knows the last remnants of Balthazar lie. “Yes,” he says softly, and thinks of Balthazar, and of his own failures.

Dean’s voice comes to him, carried by a light tone, purposefully so. “Well, all right then. Get going.”

Castiel pauses, and turns around. “I will always come back.”

“You’d better, or I’ll sic Ceria on your ass.”

Castiel laughs. “A fearsome warning,” he says wryly.

Dean’s green eyes seem to glow. “Yep.”

Castiel smiles.

The smile fades when Castiel leaves, again. There’s a week and a half until the meet, and he feels like he’s waiting for something disastrous to happen, that every second gets them closer to losing to Michael’s forces. Whatever Michael’s plans are, when Anna and the archangel don’t have the information Castiel does, they have an incomplete picture – they know less than they could, and that’s dangerous.

He likes curling up to Dean at night even though he needs no sleep, and wonders, briefly, if he’s trading the network for Dean. Except Dean didn’t allow it.

Then he exhales, focuses his mind, and begins the search.

\-----------------------------

Dean is breathing. Castiel can hear Ceria, fainter, curled up on the bed. (At some point while Castiel was gone, Ceria and Dean played a game called rock, paper, scissors for the bed. Dean lost.) Dean’s head lies on the arm of the couch, body crunched up in a way Castiel suspects will be very uncomfortable come morning.

Still, Castiel doesn’t move from his place, sitting with his knees pulled up, watching the lights outside. New York never really quiets, but this high up, he can’t hear anything, only see the lights which never fade or go out in far off buildings. It’s an interesting place for a safehouse, wrapped in the middle of a city, a place so large it’s easy to be anonymous.

Dean snuffles in his sleep. Castiel glances over, watching him crinkle his nose and shift around. A surge of feeling runs through Castiel, and he exhales slowly.

He gets up, and carefully moves Dean’s feet so he’s lying fully stretched on the couch. He settles on the floor in front of Dean, head leaning back onto the cushion.

Dean announces he’s awake in the early morning by slipping a hand down Castiel’s face, to his neck, resting on his shoulder. Castiel twists to look at him, and Dean smiles sleepily.

Castiel smiles back.

\-----------------------------

Castiel stops on a plateau, a desert spread before him. There’s a shift in the air of dirt, roughed up into the air by his wake. Anna and he fought a battle with Michael’s soldiers here once. Not exactly a place he thought she would revisit, but he’s losing options.

He’s not alone.

Beriel is barefoot before him, steps forward lightly. Her wings are spread, ethereal and visible only to him, like she’s about to take off; he saw the hesitation when she saw him. This was probably meant to be no more than a glance to see who he is. “Castiel. I did not expect it to be you.”

Castiel tilts his head. “Anna is aware that someone is looking for her.” And they are using confirmed sightings to do it. They must be desperate.

“Many are looking for her,” is Beriel’s answer, a shift in her eyes as she speaks, watchful of their surroundings. “Michael is attempting to reach into our command structure.”

“I know,” Castiel says. “They know far more than they should. I need to speak with Anna – events have arisen that cannot wait.”

She nods slowly. She casts a second look around, searching for anything amiss. Then she reaches forward with her hand, and Castiel takes it.

She leads him around the world, darting here and there to lose any pursuers, then they fly to Australia. They arrive in the desert, long stretches of desert interrupted here and there by gangly trees, and sitting under one of those trees is a house. It kind of reminds Castiel of Balthazar’s safehouse, remote with a deck surrounding the house.

Marked in longs swathes of stone are sigils of hiding, placed evenly around the property.

Beriel starts forward, and Castiel follows.

He sees Anna at the window, then she disappears, returning to sight when she opens the door. “Cas. What are you doing here?”

Castiel takes a deep breath. “There are things you need to know.”

\-----------------------------

Anna sits barefoot on a tan couch, visibly lumpy, but Anna went for it as soon as Castiel got most of his story out, her legs pulled up and hands interlocked. Beriel has retreated elsewhere, and Castiel stands, feeling vaguely like this is one of the debriefings they had while in heaven, waiting for a superior to judge their efforts.

“That’s it,” Castiel finishes. He left nothing out, not even his relationship with Dean.

Anna looks up, hazel eyes clear. “Are you sure of him? This Dean?”

Castiel hesitates. “I love him.”

Almost a minute passes before Anna speaks. “Sit down, Cas.”

He sits.

“You’re not the only one who has important information, game-changing information,” she tells him.

He blinks, not expecting this – expecting her to judge him about Dean, tell him what to do about Dean, agree with Ceria, or something else. He’d been so blinded by his own circumstances he’d forgotten Anna’s. “What do you mean?”

“We’ve received word from Joshua. It’s Raphael. He’s infiltrated Michael’s forces.”

Castiel tilts his head. Raphael had been missing for so long, Castiel had half-expected things to continue that way. Naïve. “So there’s war on two fronts, is what you’re saying?”

“We know that Raphael disappeared centuries ago. Apparently this is why. I guess he figured it was a free for all, winner takes heaven.”

Castiel’s mind races. “That could explain the attack on our cells, the confusion in the plans to take us out,” Castiel says. “Multiple plans at once, conflicting with each other.”

“Not to mention some of our spies could be on Raphael’s side, not Michael’s.”

She’s right. This complicates things immensely. It is not only Michael that must now fight a war on two fronts, it is them as well. The network is not desirable for Raphael, not desirable for any angel that wants to take over heaven and rule. Michael’s rule has always seemed predestined, ordained by God because he is the most powerful, but the idea of God being gone must have affected others as well, Raphael realizing that their static positions are now meaningless.

“And the storage unit? How does that fit in?” Anna continues.

“Michael intended on fighting Raphael here? I’m not sure. If there was an all-out war between Michael and Raphael, he might have wanted to hide the weapons so Raphael couldn’t get at them.”

“That might explain the archangel blade,” Anna says.

“If Michael took it from Raphael somehow,” Castiel finishes. “Then there’s that Balthazar did kill Zachariah.”

Anna raises an elegant eyebrow. “He did us a favor.”

“Or Michael one,” Castiel says. “The attack on us was strange, very limited – not using Michael’s full strength in forces. Not that Michael has ever been prone to coming down and dealing with things himself, but if Zachariah worked for Raphael, that might explain that.”

“So Balthazar would be the Michael loyalist,” Anna muses. “You know, when you came for me, I thought things in heaven had never been more complicated.”

Castiel smiles wanly. “How wrong we both were.”

“Yes,” she says quietly. “We found two spies, and both were killed when we attempted to capture them. No idea which faction they worked for, or if they worked for different ones. One entire cell has disappeared – I think they might have been Raphael's, and their disappearance actually led us to one of the spies."

Castiel thinks. "Their disappearance meant one of the people on my list did attack all that were available to them."

"Yes. I came up with a list similar to yours, I'm sure.”

“You think that’s all there is?”

She shakes her head. “I’m not sure. Dean is – in a precarious position, but you’re right in that there’s no proof. We’ll recheck every agent when we reconnect, in case of any more spies, but if there are any, their positions have become useless. I would expect them to reveal themselves when we reorganize, if there are any more.”

Castiel lowers his gaze. “What Dean does know is largely out of date, since the scattering. Even I don’t know where everyone is.”

“Yes. Our situation has changed a great deal.” Anna stiffens her spine, puts her feet flat on the floor, and looks Castiel in the eye. “They know, they must know, that Gabriel is ours, since Raphael has revealed himself. They haven’t found me or him, of course, which means the network still lives, but you were correct in scattering the rest. The only problem is that it will take years for us to safely reestablish contact.”

“Is that too long? Too long with us weakened enough for Michael’s plan to take hold?”

Anna frowns. “I don’t think he’d take that risk. But I should ask Gabriel. Gabriel would know.”

“What are your plans?”

“Initiate contact after a year or so,” Anna says. “Change cells, and cell leaders.”

“Ceria should take charge of one, when it comes to that,” Castiel quietly suggests.

“Why?” Anna asks, stilling and looking curious.

“Power is irrelevant to how good a leader you are,” Castiel points out. “I have not – been the best, it seems, but Ceria is. And we are not like Michael, that power makes it right.”

“Very well,” Anna agrees. “There’s not much we can do besides that. Michael and Raphael can fight it out themselves, as far as I’m concerned.”

“It may or may not turn out that way.”

Anna smiles. “I’m optimistic.”

Castiel is silent. Anna gets up, silent on her bare feet, and wanders to the other side of the room, where a laptop sits on a desk. She turns it on, a chime sounding, then turns around to face Castiel. It strikes Castiel that this must be her home, as much as she or anyone in the network has one. He wonders if other cell leaders know about this place.

“Are you still in contact with the other cell leaders?”

“Some,” Anna says. “Some scattered on their own. A lot of cells have been broken apart. We’re weak, Castiel. I can see what you’re thinking.” She turns around, hand on the edge of the desk.

“The weapons,” Castiel says.

“Yes,” Anna replies evenly. “You want to use them. Use the distraction Michael must be feeling.”

“You disagree?”

“I think we can gain just as much by letting them fight, with no loss of our own.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Castiel says. “It’s just that we’ve been hit so severely, and I –“

“Want to hit them back.”

Castiel shrugs, uncomfortable. “I don’t want revenge.”

“I know you don’t,” Anna says, eyes widening with surprise. “I wouldn’t think that. You just want more to flee, more to be free.”

Castiel dips his head, feeling guilty for a second. Of course Anna understands. She’s Anna, and they’ve been in this since the beginning.

Anna returns to the computer. “I made an email account for you,” she says.

Castiel blinks, comes closer. “Okay. Is that it?”

“Yes,” she says, flipping the computer so it’s fully facing him.

“I’ve chosen seven to gradually contact the others. You’re one, Ceria will be another. We’ll communicate this way for now, except for you. You’ll have a cell, and you’re only to use it to contact me.” She opens a drawer and hands it to him. She also gives a piece of paper with a number on it.

“Can I give this to Ceria?” Castiel asks, meaning the phone number.

“If you’re sure,” Anna says.

Castiel nods. “Thank you.” Then he asks, “Would it be worse or better if Raphael won the infighting?”

Anna’s gaze slides away. “Judging from the fact that he’s rebelled at all, I think Raphael is far more likely to go outside the rules, and end the world with or without Lucifer being freed.” She raises a hand to her forehead. “Crap.”

“But the chances of him winning …”

“Against Michael? Slim. Especially since he doesn’t have heaven’s weapons. Michael was always the strongest, in any battle Michael could best him.”

“You think Raphael was depending on the weapons, and that’s why Michael hid them here on earth?”

“Perhaps he felt there was less chance of someone stumbling upon it here versus a traitor in heaven.”

Castiel exhales, thinking. “You said there was seven of us trusted with the re-gathering the network.”

“Over the next couple of decades, yes.”

“Give each a weapon,” Castiel suggests. “And give Gabriel one. Not the archangel blade, he doesn’t need that. But if he was ever stumbled upon by Michael or Raphael, it might make the difference.”

“You’re right,” Anna says. “Gabriel’s not exactly the most gifted fighter. I’ll do that, with the others as well. It would still leave enough in reserve, if a few were recaptured.” She smiles. “You know, I did figure out how they got his code name. A fallen one was careless with it in front of the spy I mentioned.”

“That’s good,” Castiel says. A huge relief, in fact.

“Sounds like a plan. We’ve always worked better together.”

Castiel looks her over. There are circles under her eyes, a kind of weariness there. She’s shouldered much of the weight of the network for so long. “Be safe,” Castiel says.

“You as well, Cas.”

Castiel shifts his wings outward, readying himself.

Anna stops him with a raised hand. “Dean. Is he going to stay with you? You know you’ll spend a lot of time taking care of him, you’ll have to change all your patterns.” Allow for eating, sleeping, and all the other human necessities. Castiel cannot wander any longer.

Castiel swallows. “It’ll be worth it.”

She nods. “Go.”

He does.

Dean and Ceria are there. Castiel’s new patterns. They’re both sitting on the couch, apparently watching something on the new television, but Ceria turns it off as soon as Castiel arrives.

“Any luck?” Dean asks.

Castiel nods.

“You found her?” Ceria’s surprised.

“Yes. We have a plan … of sorts. And new information has arisen.”

“What is it?” Dean asks.

“Raphael has entered the picture,” Castiel says. “He’s fighting Michael for control. I think that’s who Zachariah was really working for.”

“Then they know about Gabriel,” Ceria states. Dean looks back and forth, obviously trying to catch up.

“They know his identity,” Castiel agrees. “But they failed to get close enough to find him, or Anna, and it appears the spies have been found.”

“Then the attack failed,” Ceria says, smiling faintly.

It suddenly hits Castiel. They’re safe. They survived. The spies have been rooted out, Dean is here, and Ceria is alive. They have decades to recover, Raphael weakened enough for Michael to take him out, and the network continues on. It lives. Castiel hasn’t screwed things up beyond hope. Even Dean, even Castiel compromised by Dean, lacks power now. And, of course, there is Dean himself. Dean _and_ Castiel.

Feeling almost giddy, Castiel goes to Dean, cradles his face in his hands, and kisses him, before wrapping his arms around Dean tightly.

Dean jerks, startled, then leans into the embrace. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay,” Dean says in his ear. Then, “Cas, you’re kind of strangling me.”

Castiel lets him go, vaguely hears Ceria laugh. Dean’s wears a similar look.

“I’ll leave you be for a few hours,” Ceria says, casting a calm and knowing look at Castiel, then Dean, before spreading her wings and flying - before Castiel can answer.

“Smart girl,” Dean says.

“What?”

Dean picks up their kiss where they left off, pressing into Castiel’s mouth, fierce and demanding. He breaks off to say, “It’s over, isn’t it?”

“For the time being. Yes.”

Dean licks into his mouth in reply. "God, I hope she knows enough not to come back anytime soon, it's been _days_ ," he mutters into Castiel's mouth. Castiel doesn't reply.

Dean's hands scramble at Castiel’s shoulders, fingernails raking into Castiel’s skin through his shirt, making Castiel shiver; it doesn’t hurt, it’s just sensation, part of Dean laid upon Castiel’s skin. Castiel tries to break the kiss to take off his shirt, but Dean won’t let him, moving right back into Castiel’s space, lips racing across Castiel’s cheek, back to his mouth.

“Clothes,” Castiel murmurs into Dean’s mouth.

“Yeah,” Dean says, withdrawing and biting his lip, grabbing the hem of his shirt and ripping it off.

Castiel does the same, mirrors him again with his pants and boxers.

Then Dean shoves him, shoves him again until the back of Castiel’s knees hit the bed, and it’s not forceful enough to overcome Castiel’s strength, but Castiel falls anyway. He raises his feet to the bed, pushes himself back, and Dean crawls on top of him, laughing lightly.

“What?” Castiel gasps, already out of breath.

Dean doesn’t answer. He kisses Castiel again, open mouthed and pushing his way in, in one hand holding himself up and the other skims down Castiel’s neck to a nipple, rubbing his thumb over it.

Such a small action shouldn’t make Castiel moan, but it does. He tries to reciprocate, runs his hands up Dean’s sides, fascinated by the way he can feel Dean moving above him, Dean pushing his hips into Castiel’s, Dean’s cock sliding along his own. He feels more grounded in this body than he ever has, more attuned to Dean, enjoying it, enjoying Dean’s joy.

“Celebratory sex,” Dean tells him in a conspiratorial whisper.

Castiel laughs. “Is that a human thing?”

“Oh, definitely one of the perks,” Dean says, smirking, that falling away with another press of his lips. Castiel grabs Dean’s cock, slides his fingers over the head, and Dean’s thrusts stutter. “Hey, wait. Can we, um, do something else?”

“Anything,” is Castiel’s immediate response.

Dean hops off of him, smiling, a flush over his face and spreading down into his chest, cock red and bobbing when he moves. Then he bounds off for the bathroom, and Castiel sits up, hearing the sound of several somethings falling. He returns holding a tube.

“Ceria gave it to me,” Dean says, blushing bright red. “Straightforward kind of girl. And apparently very interested in your sex life.”

“You’ve been discussing my sex life with Ceria?”

“The lack thereof,” Dean says wryly. “Mostly her telling me, actually. Guess I’m special.”

“You are,” Castiel says honestly.

“You’re a dork,” Dean replies, grinning. He crawls over Castiel, lips pressing into Castiel’s collarbone, moving his way upward. With one hand, he urges Castiel’s knee up, pushing it into chest. Castiel goes easily, flexible, not feeling any strain.

Dean’s face is flushed, excited, and Castiel hears him doing something, but he keeps his focus on Dean’s eyes, a narrow green surrounding black pupil, all the human signs of extreme arousal. Castiel’s echoing it, already completely hard, Dean’s actions pulling the arousal from Castiel, slick skin gliding, and then Castiel feels a finger, testing at first, then breaching his body.

Castiel grunts, and Dean pauses. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Castiel says, breathy and high. He knows this; he’s seen this. He wonders what it will be like, and then Dean’s pressing more fingers in, twisting them inside Castiel and then –

“Oh!” Pleasure rushes through him, skittering over his bones to his skin, racing from that spot Dean had touched.

“Yeah,” Dean says, and stretches awkwardly to kiss Castiel, brief and folding Castiel almost in half. “Damn, you’re flexible,” Dean pants into Castiel’s mouth.

Castiel just smiles, then Dean moves both hands to under Castiel’s knees, and Castiel feels Dean’s cock pressing in, bigger than the fingers, almost but not quite hurting. Instead, there’s just a sense of fullness, of Dean being right there, pressed to Castiel’s skin all over. Every part that Dean touches, Castiel brings his grace to, grace to body, feeling it with all the fury of the power inside of him.

Dean’s in him, with him, moving gently at first, then full long strokes, fucking Castiel, breathing hard and staring into Castiel’s eyes. Castiel can’t look away, and neither does Dean, even as one hand hitches Castiel’s knee higher, and Castiel puts his legs around Dean’s waist as Dean leans over him, keeping himself upright with one arm, the other dipping to between Castiel’s legs, where his cock lies slapped onto his stomach.

He strokes it, awkwardly, and it takes all of Castiel’s will not to come. He’ll wait, he’ll wait until Dean’s ready, and Dean gives it to him, fucking hard, a stroke to match each thrust. Suddenly it’s like they synchronize, the movement of Dean’s body into Castiel echoing, bodies meeting like it’s been practiced a thousand times before. Castiel can hear the slap of Dean’s balls against his ass, can hear Dean’s breathing, can hear the wet slide of Dean inside, can hear Dean’s heart thundering fast. He keeps his hands at Dean’s side, running over Dean’s ribs as they appear and disappear with each fast pant, sweat-slick.

Dean’s movements go erratic and spastic, uncontrolled, and his eyes roll back in his head as he comes. Castiel feels it, hears it, sees it, and lets himself go with a spark.

He senses more than sees or feels Dean collapse on him, slip out of his ass, and lets his legs fall open and down, Dean’s head on his chest. Castiel can feel something coming out of his ass – Dean’s come. A strange and new sensation, sensation upon sensation, that Dean gives him, crude and beautiful. After a few seconds, he feels Dean start to shift, and he opens his eyes to see Dean’s, still glazed. Dean moves his body to Castiel’s side, and Castiel turns with him, so they’re still facing each other.

“No flash of light,” Dean murmurs, half-smiling, looking a bit dazed.

“I broke the light,” Castiel answers, raising his eyes to the kitchen lights, which are dark and sparking.

Eyes bright, Dean laughs into his chest.

\-----------------------------

They’re both dressed and sitting on the couch when Ceria comes back with a rush of air. Dean’s lying sideways on the couch, barefoot, toes tucked into a cushion, half-dozing, and Castiel’s sitting on the floor, head leaning back and almost touching Dean, staring at the closed closet.

Ceria smiles, looks a bit oddly at the kitchen lights, which are off, and then sits down opposite Castiel. “So what’s next?”

Castiel reaches into the pocket of his jeans, takes out Anna’s cell phone. He hands it to Ceria. It’s a flip-phone, and the piece of paper with her number is jammed into the closed phone. “Memorize that number.”

“Whose is it?”

“Anna’s.”

Ceria nods, takes the piece of paper out, memorizes it, and then it disintegrates with a small touch of grace. “So what next?”

“For the network? Anna’s chosen new cell leaders. You’ll be one. You’ll need to visit with her soon, get something from her.” One of heaven’s weapons. “Then we scatter for a year or so, then attempt to reconnect.”

“We’re not doing anything about Michael or Raphael?”

“Anna will talk to Gabriel. But no, nothing’s planned.” He’s still not sure he agrees, but Anna’s smart, and she’s led them well. Castiel has no problem following her lead. “Let them fight it out.”

Ceria takes this in, silent for a few seconds. “What about the weapons?”

“They’ll be split up and used.”

Dean raises a hand. “So wait. We have a year until anything happens?”

Castiel pauses, then says, “Yes.” A year. A short time that seems like such a long time, now. No missions, just digging in and hiding somewhere, finding and spreading resources while they wait to reconnect. He and Ceria should split up and have Anna as their only point of contact, but Dean would remain with him.

“Sounds boring,” Dean says, mostly joking.

Castiel smiles at him. “I’ll enjoy the boredom.” He doesn’t think he’ll have much boredom with Dean. There is one last thing to check, though, for anything that could be relevant. He’s been hiding from it, and he can’t keep doing that.

He steps forward to the closet, opens it and takes out the pillowcase Ceria had used to collect Balthazar’s things.

Zachariah worked for Raphael – which means Raphael wanted Dean dead, not Michael. Again, this dovetails into the notion that Dean works for Michael, that he’s infiltrating the network on Michael’s behalf. Otherwise, why kill him? Why search him out so fiercely? But Dean is Dean, and doesn’t remember who else he once was, and maybe never will.

It brings him back to Balthazar. He had a larger plan – he must have. So what, then, did he leave behind?

Dean follows him. “Cas, what is it?”

“A feeling,” Castiel mutters. He grabs the pillowcase, and dumps the contents on the floor. There’s a laptop, which is half-shattered, when and why a mystery, a figurine of a horse, carved into jade, and various identifications in various names.

None of it looks useful, except the horse, which glows faintly with grace.

Castiel picks it up. He feels the dips and curves, the knife marks that create a mane, a tail, a flexed muscle. It is made of Balthazar’s grace, is, in a sense, pure grace, all that remains besides wings burned to nothing in a storage locker. He feels nothing else, just the surrounding grace. Balthazar had carefully and lovingly crafted this, but why?

Zachariah worked for Raphael. Balthazar killed him.

He kept a stone carving of a horse locked in a safe. Castiel holds it in the palm of his hand, considering it.

“Cas?” Dean’s standing above him, eyeing the object he’s holding. “What’s that? Is it glowing?”

Dean picks it up, fingers brushing Castiel’s skin.

A pulse of light sizzles the air, with a snap pushing Castiel off his feet and several feet back. Castiel finds himself against the far side wall, Dean standing still in the middle of the apartment, still holding the jade horse. He has a look of surprise on his face, then he looks up, green eyes turning blue, filled with the light of grace.

Dean is recovering his grace. For a second, Castiel’s glad. Then he’s worried. Then, breathless, he knows.

“Ceria, run!”

He dimly hears the flap of Ceria’s wings.

There’s blue light, shifting and twisting and curling its way from the jade horse into Dean’s mouth, getting brighter and brighter, the air crackling with lightning, hot and cold seizing the air, creating shifting turbulence. Then Dean begins to choke, lightning wrapped around his throat.

His body isn’t accepting the grace, not completely. Dean – _Dean_ is dying.

Castiel shouldn’t save him, but he steps forward, already feeling pain, intense power twisting around Dean’s body. He grabs Dean’s hand, forces his own grace into Dean’s body, creating a stop, a place where the power slows in its takeover, and it takes all of Castiel’s strength to hold it for precious seconds.

Then Dean’s grace explodes. It’s like being hit by a hurricane, but Castiel feels Dean’s hand tighten in his, and then it all goes blank with noise and sensation.

Blinking his way back to sight, Castiel sees that the apartment is destroyed, walls caved outward hundreds of feet, windows blown out with so much force no glass remains, just the sound of the wind this high up, picking up debris and making it skitter across the floor.

He turns his head, and sees Michael staring back at him, Castiel’s hand still in his own.

Castiel stumbles back, panicked, Michael’s hand burning like fire until Castiel snatches it away, breathing fast and feeling himself tremble with horror and loss. He spends one long endless moment searching that face for Dean, for the way Dean looks at Castiel, the surface amusement and carefully hidden happiness, but he doesn’t see Dean anymore. Flat eyes stare back at him, coolly calculating. Always, before, he’d seen the change, the shift when a fallen angel regains their grace, but it’s like Michael stepped forward out of the past, decades ago, when he tore Castiel apart.

Michael stands up in response to Castiel’s withdrawal, more graceful in it than Dean ever was, hands clenched, expression calm as stone as he stares down at Castiel, who takes a step back. Michael follows, intent.

Castiel flinches when Michael half-ways raises his hand.

Dean’s green eyes soften, looking regretful, and his hand drops. “I shouldn’t have killed you. You didn’t deserve it, and so much misery could have been avoided.”

Castiel just shakes his head, unable to speak.

Michael steps forward again, slowly, approaching Castiel like one would a wild animal. Castiel stands his ground this time, knowing it would be pointless to flee. He reaches out for Castiel’s shoulder, then past it, touching Castiel’s wing, a pulse of grace working through both of them, like when they first met. Castiel flaps his wings once in surprise, and Michael smiles.

“That’s me,” Michael says, with a note of strange wonder.

It is the thread of Michael’s grace spun throughout Castiel’s body, the power Michael used to rip Castiel’s grace to shreds, imprinted in silver on his wings. That is what has connected them this whole time – that act of murder. Castiel closes his eyes, turns his head away.

“You always knew, Castiel, and you stayed by me anyway.”

Castiel takes in a breath, a small hurt sound in his throat, before he opens his eyes, blinking rapidly. He can’t look at Dean – at Michael.

“It doesn’t have to be this way. Turn on the network, and we can be a family again.” Michael's voice is almost serene, with that undercurrent of intensity that he's always had, that Castiel always saw from a distance.

Castiel’s head snaps up. “You would actually suggest that to me? After all the times you have tried to have me killed, all the wrongs you have committed?”

“They were necessary, to deal with your betrayal, and I _want_ that to stop, Castiel. I never wanted this.” Michael even looks sincere, a small hint of frustration under that earnestness.

“No.” Castiel says it flatly. “You wanted us obedient and mindless, slaves to your will.”

Michael’s eyes narrow, becoming angry, leaning forward. “And this? This is better? Brother against brother, killing one another? This is what I hoped to avoid, Castiel.”

“By means of a horrific lie, setting yourself up as God,” Castiel says, furious and hurt, one feeding the other. “At least I fight for what is right, not using the works of Lucifer himself.”

“It was you who made it a lie, by forcing me to keep our father’s absence a secret, saying you would tell the others, spreading those black wings of yours.” His tone is calmly twisting, oddly convincing. “They would have continued just as they were, Castiel, happy and secure in the knowledge our father cares for them. It was you who changed that, you who changed everything.”

“Because I dared to think we were supposed to know? That God wanted us to know so we could learn His new will?”

“I am His new will,” Michael snaps.

“And how is that going for you?” Castiel says, hurt and hurting.

Michael's grace pulses, pain flaring in Castiel, the world shaking, and then it suddenly stops, and Castiel is left gasping, knowing how close he was to death, but Michael stopped. He stopped, and Castiel looks up at him again, seeking something, something even he doesn't know.

Michael’s voice is sharp and quick, words filtered through anger, reason turning to fury. “You are neither right nor capable of winning.” He turns away, as if eyeing their surroundings, and then returns his attention to Castiel, walking around him in a loose circle, Castiel’s gaze following. Michael’s pace evens out, calms as his breathing does. “I admit I was supposed to remember who I really was much earlier. My – humanity suppressed it more than I thought it would. I was supposed to work longer at infiltrating your network. But as the humans say, battle plans only survive until first contact.”

“We’ve scattered but we’re alive,” Castiel answers, forcing his breathing to remain even, forcing himself to keep eye contact with Michael’s sideways glance. “Your plan has failed.”

“Has it? This freedom you think you have, it’s all wishful thinking. None of this was ever going to work.”

“No,” Castiel denies.

“I will find Gabriel, eventually, and you and the network are scattered and weak. And if you hope Raphael will distract me, you are wrong.”

“Oh?” Castiel says, and wonders why Michael hasn’t killed him yet. Why he’s talking – why he’s bothering to try to convince Castiel of anything. That’s not Michael’s way, and there’s no Dean in that gaze.

“Raphael knew me, Castiel. He figured out what I was up, that I had fallen, and he hunted me through Zachariah. As I had intended, to make him reveal himself.” Michael smiles briefly. “That is why I fell without telling anyone where or exactly when, why I set up all the garrisons to run without me for the next twenty years. Rachel became my right hand, Zachariah my left, because I did not trust him – justly, as it turns out.”

Castiel sees it, now, the confusing threads of Michael’s actions making sense. It’s insane. It’s insane that Michael would fall, would take that risk, would take the risk of being killed or changed, vulnerable and safe only as long as his anonymity lasted. Michael’s watching him, shades of Dean in his eyes, but there’s only anger there, a kind of deep-seated anger Dean never had, even in the beginning.

“The network will fall, and apocalypse will happen, Castiel.”

The end of their world, and the human world. If Michael cares to take the risk with the network weakened, he can. If Raphael's intervention was planned for, they won't have the time to gather. The network could delay things, complicate things, but could it truly avert Michael’s plans right now? Even with Gabriel, almost all of heaven lies on Michael’s side. Anna’s confidence seems so distant, here. Castiel stares at Michael for a long second, pleading, knowing like all the other times it’s useless. "Dean, don't."

"That's not my name."

Castiel's mouth is dry, but he keeps going. “No – Dean, no. You have a human family. Would you truly destroy them?”

“I would use them,” Michael says matter-of-factly. He tilts his head, strangely unfamiliar. “As I used them to infiltrate you. Sam was purposeful, too, of course. He’ll make a suitable vessel. I’m sure you understand.”

Castiel remembers his own words – that fallen angels are born to barren mothers, that Sam is a result of Dean’s presence, and with a rush, he does understand, feeling sick. Lucifer. Sam would make the perfect vessel for Lucifer. The right bloodline, the after echo of Michael’s presence in Mary Winchester. Dean’s brother, Michael’s brother.

Michael planned it all perfectly. He takes them all out with one fell stroke – Raphael and the network, and then the end begins, Michael and Lucifer set up to fight to the new end. It’s elegant in its simplicity, in its daring.

But it didn’t quite work. Not entirely. Even if Castiel dies here, the network has some hope of surviving, delaying Michael’s plans. So thin, that hope. “Please, Dean. Don’t do this. Don’t you remember who you were, all you learned as a human being? You would cause endless suffering, you would destroy your family, you would destroy _Sam_.”

“It’s _right_ , Castiel. Ordained by God, that the apocalypse will happen, that Lucifer will be freed and his death will introduce paradise. When it all ends, it will be as it was before, before humanity, before our father left us, and I will lead us there.”

“So ordained you had to manipulate things?” Castiel retorts.

“Why is this so difficult for you to understand? I had to keep things together. I was alone, and our brothers were despairing for lack of orders. I am the sole voice of God, in His absence, and that makes me right.”

Castiel shakes his head. It’s like Michael’s reasoning is a strange amalgamation of their father’s last order and reacting to the situation at hand. Maybe … “Dean, don’t forget yourself, what you were. What we were.”

“I choose to be what I am, not some fake and inferior human copy,” Michael snaps.

“What about your family – don’t you love your family? John and Sam?” His connection to them should be stronger than the one to Castiel, he was with them longer, and Castiel remembers Dean talking about Sam, about how much he wanted to protect Sam, how much he loved his family. He wants to ask about himself, but doesn’t quite dare.

Michael’s lips twist into a cruel smile, something like anger and pain sparking in his eyes. “You want to persist in that avenue? Very well.”

He waves his hand, and for a second it's just shapes, and then Castiel recognizes them: it’s John Winchester, and Dean’s brother, Sam. Both look around wildly, John grabbing Sam and putting himself between Castiel and Sam, determining that Castiel’s the threat. Sam cries out Dean’s name, and tries to launch himself at his brother, but John stops him, wary.

“What’s going on?” John snarls.

Michael smiles, cold. “I’m proving a point.”

John shifts his gaze from Castiel to Dean, confusion lighting on his face. He understands that something has changed, that Castiel is afraid, and Dean isn’t. “Dean, you had better explain yourself.” There’s order in his tone, sure of Dean’s obedience.

Michael’s face twists into something ugly. “To think I once worshipped you. You’re no more worthy of it than my real father.” Anger shows on Michael’s face, the same anger when Michael had turned to Castiel and ripped him apart.

Then Michael snaps his fingers, and John Winchester dies.

He collapses, neatly, body intact but dead instantly.

Castiel barely sees the reaper, intent on Sam’s scream as his father falls, shaking his father’s body, and Michael just standing there, a cold fire in his eyes.

“Be still,” Michael says to him, and Sam goes unnaturally silent. Some of the fury in his eyes has calmed, something complex rising in its place.

“What do you want?” Castiel whispers, staring at the body of Dean’s father. He won’t hurt Sam, physically, Castiel knows. It’s not part of the plan. Castiel stares at Sam, the teenager’s face strangely blank. He knows why Sam is here, but not himself, but they share one thing: they’re both helpless, standing here in Michael’s presence.

Michael moves forward, swift and sudden, and Castiel flinches, again. Michael reaches out with his right hand, placing it on the side of Castiel’s face, thumb on Castiel’s chin, tilting his head upwards, so Castiel’s staring him right in the eyes, and there’s pressure there, bordering on pain.

There’s a sudden rush of air, the knowledge of another’s presence. Michael reacts before Castiel does, expression full of surprise.

It’s Gabriel.

Castiel almost doesn’t notice Ceria and Anna appearing behind him, silent, and horror rises within; they’re all here. Taken in by Castiel’s trust of Dean, and now Michael has them all.

Dean – Michael – takes an aborted step forward, away from Castiel, genuine pleasure rushing across his face. “Gabriel. It is good to see you.”

“Hey, bro.” It’s casual, unafraid, accompanied by a smirk. He knew Michael was here, he must have. Gabriel turns to Anna and Castiel. “Hey, kids. I never led you, Castiel. You and Anna? You were the driving force behind all this, not me. I’m just the juice. A flashlight. You decide where to shine it. Now _run_.”

Michael tilts his head.

“Ceria, grab Sam,” Castiel barks out.

She grips Sam’s shoulder and disappears, Gabriel’s grace twisting around Michael briefly.

“Gabriel,” and Michael’s voice is angry now, wings flared. “You’ll regret that.”

And it’s the last thing Castiel sees before Anna drags him away.

The journey is both swift and long, Anna’s wings cutting through reality, Castiel an empty weight behind her. They arrive somewhere else, not Anna’s safehouse, not any place that Castiel knows. It’s a warehouse, large windows far up above, filled with old track cars, limply scattered.

Castiel falls to his knees, hands on the dirty floor, mired in old, dried oil and dirt.

He looks up, and Anna is staring down at him, eyes in shadow, fists clenched. “You’ve destroyed us all, haven’t you?” she says, tone even.

From some yards away, Castiel hears Sam begin to cry. He looks over, and Sam’s sitting on the ground, looking stunned, but whatever force Michael was using to keep him still and silent is gone. Ceria’s trying to comfort him, has an arm around his shoulders, but Sam just looks at her blankly before turning to Castiel. “What did you do to my brother!” he screams at Castiel, trying to get up, Ceria holding him back. “What did you do to him?”

Castiel wipes his face, fingers wet, and gets up. “That was not your brother. It wasn’t Dean.”

“That strikes me as quite irrelevant as this point.” Anna shakes her head. “Castiel, how could you?”

“Gabriel came of his own free will,” Ceria says quietly, voice carrying clearly. “I told him it was Michael, and that he had Castiel, and he chose to come against our advice.”

“What are you talking about?” Sam says, voice hoarse, but beneath the panicked confusion is anger, deep, abiding anger, the echo of John Winchester.

“Dean is Michael.” Castiel repeats it in a whisper. “Dean is Michael.”

Ceria begins talking to Sam, tone low, voice even, as Sam stares at her.

Anna takes Castiel’s arm, leads him away, ignoring the faint sound of Sam’s crying and raging. “We cannot connect the fallen to heaven anymore,” Anna says softly, still walking. “And we don’t know if any of us can maintain it, if Gabriel dies.”

“He won’t kill Gabriel.”

“Oh, you think so? In all your knowledge of him?” Voice sharp, not quite mocking, but close.

“Did you see the look on Michael’s face when Gabriel appeared? He was happy to see him.” Castiel swallows. “I won’t say he’ll not harm him, but kill Gabriel, I don’t think so.”

“Yet our problem remains. We can’t grow, can’t grow stronger over time, not anymore. Michael will hunt us down one by one.”

Castiel closes his eyes. “Why did Gabriel save me? Why?” he whispers. Why did he save Michael?

He hears Anna walks away.

\-----------------------------

Castiel stares into the darkness, going over it again and again, every word, every action, every twitch Dean made. His knees are up, his hands clasped in front of him. He hasn’t moved in hours. Maybe days. He’s not sure. Time goes, then restarts, Dean’s face in front of him, falling away into Michael’s, warmth to stone and horror. Start, end, restart.

Sam’s breathing evenly, asleep, on a mattress Ceria acquired from somewhere. He hadn’t wanted to sleep, but sheer exhaustion forced it, eventually. Not before hours and hours of hysteria and questions. Lots and lots of questions. Castiel figures by now Ceria’s said enough to write a book on the subject of angels, all necessary explanations for angelic mythology included.

Light from a streetlight comes in from one of the windows in the warehouse. He can make out Ceria’s shape, sitting by Sam’s bed. She’s stuck close to him, the only one in the room with any degree of calmness.

Anna’s somewhere else. She’ll come back in a few hours.

Right now, all that matters is making sure the network, what remains of it, survives. At least until Michael comes. Oddly enough, it’s Sam’s life holding that in the balance – Michael’s plan cannot continue without Sam to hold Lucifer. Michael made a mistake when he revealed that, and Castiel took advantage of it. It’s also true that things are static, for right now. Anna disappeared and then came back a few hours later, saying that Joshua informed her that Michael brought Gabriel back to heaven, alive, and with one of heaven’s weapons in hand.

Castiel still has the archangel blade. It’s Michael’s. He recognizes the pulse of power, now, stuck in his mind as Dean’s.

When it nears dawn, Anna comes back, a quiet shift into the warehouse. She walks to him, silent.

“I was good at this,” Castiel says dully. “I trusted no one, I helped our family fall, and I never compromised. I was never compromised.”

Then Dean, like a spark of life, twisting Castiel around him, _loving_ him.

Weakness.

“I know.” Anna’s voice seems to have lost the edge.

“Ceria should hide Sam,” Castiel says. “From all of us.”

Anna looks away, nods slightly. “I agree.”

“And then?" he asks, hoping she's seen something he hasn't.

She meets his gaze. “Then we run. Unless Gabriel, by some miracle, escapes.” She sighs, shifting her shoulders, then, “I’m sorry, Castiel.”

“For what?”

She gives him a small half-smile. “You didn’t do it deliberately, and you’re not responsible for Gabriel’s actions. Ceria was right, he chose to act stupidly. You tried to stop the damage from spreading, when you found out who Dean really was.”

“I don’t think I deserve your forgiveness.” He saved Michael. Anna doesn’t know about that. He’s not sure he can admit to her, and lose what regard he has left.

A full smile, sadness within it. “I haven’t quite forgiven you.”

Castiel almost laughs, hurting. “Understood.”

“Explain it to Ceria,” Anna says. “I’m – I’m going to try and convince others to join us, be spies in heaven. Maybe one day, if Michael continues to let Gabriel live, we can break him out.”

“I understand,” Castiel says. And he does. A small hope, one that Castiel doesn’t feel. “I won’t join you,” Castiel adds.

“I know.” She pauses. “Michael’s hunting you with every force at his disposal, like nothing he's done before. You can never be among the network again. It’s too dangerous for us. We can only survive by hiding.” She raises a hand, almost withdraws, then places it along his cheek. “Goodbye, Cas.”

With a flick of her wings, she’s gone.

Castiel turns and walks towards Ceria. Sam starts to stir, stops at a touch of Ceria’s hand to his forehead. “What is it?”

Castiel sits next to her, taking a deep breath. “Michael intends for Sam to be Lucifer’s vessel.”

A pause, then, “Shit.”

“As long as Sam is free, as long as Sam is alive, Michael can’t go forward with the apocalypse.”

“Sam will die eventually, if only of old age,” Ceria points out. “Then all Michael must do is resurrect him.”

“I know. But it’s all we can do, delay things.”

“Sam will not understand.”

“Don’t tell him,” is Castiel’s calm answer. “Tell him he’s in danger, but not why, or give him some other reason. No one needs that kind of burden. Take him and run, Ceria. Disappear. Don’t contact the network, don’t contact anyone, and watch Sam constantly; I don’t doubt he’ll try to contact Dean, if he can figure out a way how. It’s not much of a life, but … you’re the best one to do it.” Ceria is calm, quick, and clever. He doesn’t know how to say that, other than this.

She smiles, as if she knows. “It’s all right. I know.”

“Goodbye, Ceria.”

“Be safe,” Ceria says, and Castiel turns to the light outside, spreads his wings and flies away.

\-----------------------------

Castiel is what he never wanted to be. Alone and cut off from his family. It reminds him of when he first awake on earth, the complete, unwilling solitude. Those first weeks of blind running, more than a dozen times he thought about turning himself in, letting Michael kill him all over again, if only to be with his family one more time. To end what seemed like a purposeless existence, that he lived for no reason at all. That was before Anna called to him.

No one will call to him now.

But the apocalypse hasn’t started. Michael doesn’t feel it’s safe enough or Raphael’s not dead yet or Ceria is still hiding Sam, but Castiel walks down the streets of New York, skyscrapers like shields against the sky, and humans walk along, hurried and unhurried, concerned with their own business, wrapped in coats and staring straight ahead. He hears traces of conversations, talk about business and socializing and intercourse.

A flash of Dean smiling at him, and Castiel blinks it away, keeps walking.

Michael’s blade is a constant presence, shifted just out of this plane, so Castiel can walk around with a weapon in hand. The sense of Michael’s presence in it hasn’t dulled over time. It’s comforting and painful all at once, a feeling only Dean could make arise.

Castiel sees a man on the streets, a cup in front of him, a sign that says he’s a veteran. He focuses on Castiel, intently, and Castiel sees the recognition, hears the prayer lift up.

Castiel’s gone, flight unseen in a crowd, before he finishes.

He doesn’t know why he bothers with places with people. It leaves him vulnerable, but he feels compelled to do it, if only to watch another intelligent being, to watch people laughing and smiling, overhearing snippets of conversation which in turn intrigue and confuse him. He can’t participate, not without appearing strange, and he shuts down the impulse to talk to anyone.

He’s not sure what Michael would do with anyone Castiel connected with, but he doesn’t want to find out.

Much of Canada is covered by fresh snow, the result of a recent storm. Castiel settles down in the middle of it, snow soft beneath his feet, freshly fallen, a white and silent world.

He’s been running for days.

He stops.

He sinks into the snow, feet of it, curling his arms around himself, cold pressed against his skin.

No one knows he’s here, and that’s why he falls apart. It works through his body like shudders, an uncontrollable ache in his chest, body curling in on the pain, and that’s when he realizes he’s sobbing, grieving, shaking, the human expression of pain. He brings his wings into this plane, shifts them around him, black and shot with silver, marked by Michael forever, and he wishes the rest of him was so scarred, his mind and his heart, so it would stop hurting.

But it keeps bleeding, itching like it will scab, then a look or a glance or a word tearing it apart, a flash of dark red in his mind.

He once told Dean it was hell to have no purpose. Castiel has no purpose anymore. He lost it, through his own foolishness. Michael was right; he knew. He didn’t know the details, but he knew something was wrong within Dean, and he pushed that knowledge away, because he didn’t want it to be true. He comforted himself with lies about how human Dean was, how human he would be forced to remain, because no angel who had ever fallen betrayed the network, betrayed the humanity etched within them by their years on earth.

Lies, stupid lies, and it still hurts.

His breath is fogging the air, and his tears freeze in tracks on his cheeks, and he scratches at them, scratching so hard he looks down and sees blood under his fingernails.

He hates Michael. He thinks he may still love Dean, except Dean’s dead.

Maybe that’s why he still loves him. Because that way, Dean was real, if briefly in existence. Now there’s only Michael, shades of supposed mercy, offering Castiel a chance to come home.

Michael said he regretted killing Castiel. Castiel wonders if that’s only because of the chain of events that followed, weakening Michael’s position, or because something within Michael grew a conscience, Dean’s conscience, and was able to see it as wrong.

He’d stepped close to Castiel. That’s the last thing Michael did, before Gabriel appeared and it all shattered so quickly.

He’d touched Castiel, touched Castiel like Dean would, that use of physical contact that only Dean had ever tried.

Castiel looks up, watches the curving away of the sun above his wing, slow and steady, darkness falling, Castiel cold and enfolded within his wings, lying on the snow.

\-----------------------------

Chile, Tibet, Japan, Greenland, Antarctica. Sometimes he is seen, sometimes not. There's a hint of Michael's power stirring, a slight rise in natural disasters. Castiel's not sure what it means.

\-----------------------------

He’s wandered, but now he thinks he knows what to do. It’s night. It’s the business district, an abandoned office building in a nest of other abandoned buildings. Castiel found minor signs of demons in this city, mostly strange weather, some bizarre and unexplained deaths, a result of a welcome visit to a library, inhaling the scent of musty books before turning to the computers.

For a moment he’s outside, watching the light flicker through the windows, then inside, and there are three of them, sitting around a table with various arcane substances on it. They turn towards him, eyes flashing black, and all three start to run. Apparently they want to keep their hosts if they can do so.

Castiel moves forward quickly, flying in short bursts to catch up, touching one on the side of the face, the other on the forehead, both dying with bursts of light through their eyes and mouths.

The third’s already left the possessed person, formless smoke escaping through a crack in the doorway.

Castiel moves to follow, and instantly runs into three angels.

Muriel’s standing slightly ahead of the other two, a calm look on her face. He knows her, fairly well – she’s has near the level of power as Zachariah did, but she was less ambitious, loyal but quiet. Castiel knows speaking to her would be useless.

“You were waiting for me,” Castiel says. Michael remembered their conversations about killing demons when they come across them, it appears.

“Apparently you’re predictable. Don’t fight, Castiel.”

Castiel exhales. “I have to try to escape.”

“So be it,” is her answer.

They surround him, and he takes out his blade. Michael’s blade.

Muriel glances at it, seems to recognize it, but says nothing. Instead, she attacks, slicing at him while the other two go for his back and side. He manages to dodge two of the attacks, and the third hits, cutting deeply into his side. He smashes the hilt of the blade into one’s chin, knocking him back, disarms the other, but before he can press his advantage Muriel’s there again, and he barely escapes her blow.

The other two angels back up, Muriel taking the lead again. She feints and then moves for the hand that holds the blade, violently trying to disarm him. He doesn’t let her, but she uses her other hand to strike Castiel across the face. He feels one of the other angels grab his arm, and he deliberately goes lax, forcing that angel to carry his weight, before jerking away. The other angel recovers, shifts out of phase enough to cut into Castiel’s wing, and he flares both of them, pushing that angel away, pain arcing through him.

He breathes deeply, Muriel twirling her blade. “You won’t escape. Surrender.”

Castiel’s hand tightens around his hilt. There’s that pulse of power again, the echo of Michael. He pushes it through his body, healing his wings.

Then he throws the blade at Muriel. She attempts to dodge, and doesn’t quite make it. The other two angels use the distraction to attack him, but they move on opposite sides, and Castiel uses the momentum of one to crash into the other, slicing his throat with his own blade. The other stumbles back at the flash of light, the dying of grace.

Muriel yanks Michael’s sword out of her shoulder, groaning, letting it fall, and her eyes are full of anger as she approaches him.

Castiel gasps out, desperate, “Do you think Michael would want you to kill me?”

Muriel hesitates.

Castiel grabs Michael’s blade, she turns, and her anger makes her form sloppy. He slices into her wing, and runs.

The other angel follows, but is injured.

Castiel escapes, breathing hard, wounded.

He sinks to the ground beneath Anna’s tree, hand to his bloody side, moonlight falling across the tree, scattering through leaves of endless green. He deserves this, deserves being alone and hunted. He let his emotions guide him, and now Gabriel’s gone. Gabriel’s gone, and Anna flees, and all of those who fall cannot connect to heaven again, so that even if they regain their grace, that grace will fade over time.

His own connection never failed him. He woke up with it, as he woke up with this body. Gabriel used to sarcastically call Castiel ‘Daddy’s favorite’ for that reason, and Castiel thinks he'll never hear that teasing again.

“Dean,” he whispers, and leans against the tree.

Will he follow Castiel here, remember this as he remembered every moment he lived through Dean’s eyes? There was no name affixed to this place, and Dean had no grace then to be able to recognize it again.

Castiel stares up into the green leaves, still breathing heavily and hurting.

Castiel hadn’t known romantic love. He knows the power humans attribute to it, but angels rarely feel this way towards each other, or anyone. An angel’s emotions are slick and cool, structured. They exist, but within certain constraints – constraints which can be broken. Falling is the easiest method, but Castiel knows all too well now that falling isn’t necessary. The choice to feel is all that matters. Love is meant to be unconditional, pure, free of grudges and pain, but Castiel’s love is all twisted up inside of him now, clear for that time, muddied by Michael.

He can’t help but wonder if Michael feels the same.

Michael touched him. Castiel goes back to that moment, again and again.

Michael hunts him, and that is the Michael Castiel knew before.

Maybe Dean isn’t lost. Just hidden, transmuted by a nearly endless memory.

Or that’s all Castiel’s wishful thinking. But Castiel has nothing more to risk, save his own life. He’s cut off from the network, from Anna. He can no longer be used. Anna left him behind for that purpose, because Michael hunts him with a previously unknown thoroughness, that intensity formed into orders for every angel on earth. Castiel was a nuisance, then, a crack in the plan that spread and spread, the beginning irrelevant to the end.

An end Castiel has hastened, and now Castiel runs, like a coward, and Dean – Michael …

Something Ceria said. _If anyone could hold him to us, it would be you._ Ceria pushed Dean at him, encouraged it. So did Balthazar, but for an entirely different reason. But they were both logical reasons, a battle that would have to be waged within Dean.

Castiel’s hand falls to his side, to the dry and yellow grass he sits on. Ceria saw clearly when Castiel did not. Balthazar saw an opportunity to be pressed, and Ceria saw a weakness.

Castiel fled Michael. Perhaps that was a mistake.

He curls his grace inside himself, feeling the slow heal of his injuries, and breathes.

\-----------------------------

He wanders, again. Cities, towns, villages, and ultimately to places that lack any intelligent life, places full of quiet and the rest of God’s creations, but not any humans. Not any angels. Just the ground and the sky meeting one another, nothing in between but birds and trees reaching high. These places are the safest, but they make the dull ache in Castiel hurt worse, that sense of loneliness Castiel had ignored for so long arising, the careful covering Castiel had constructed ripped away by a few weeks with Dean.

He kneels in the moss beneath a tree in a forest, somewhere, and thinks that he cannot survive this way any longer.

It would be better to be dead.

\-----------------------------

The thing about love, that Castiel has come to understand, is that is meaningless if not absolute. It is meaningless if not unconditional. He’s watched human families fall apart and re-gather a hundred times, and those two things were always the key. He thinks this is where the family of angels fails. Love is conditional, linked to obedience. Love is ephemeral, and it began disappearing when God left.

Humans went and re-found love in each other, after God, but no one else did.

This is the last thing Castiel can give Dean. Dean gave, and taught, Castiel love. Castiel can do the same in return, with his dying breath. It’s not about Dean or Michael deserving it, or Castiel, because to many eyes, neither deserves any such thing. The person Castiel fell in love with still exists in some form - the parts of Dean that were born in Dean are still there, just like Michael always lurked in Dean. Seeing only Michael was Castiel’s fault, the afterimage of Michael burned into Castiel with trauma. Dean was always Michael, shades of before influencing the now, the person Dean Winchester was raised to be.

And so finally, he comes to understand: he saved Michael because it was Dean, because he loves him against all reason. As Gabriel did.  
Castiel is nothing now, ready to be cast to the wind. If God intended the network, it will survive without him. There is only this last thing that Castiel can do - one last act before death.

\-----------------------------

Lights, like little beads in a line, a spot there, a steady interval of darkness, and light again, weirdly unnatural. City street lights sometimes still seem odd to Castiel, even though in the past thirty plus years he’s felt like he’s aged millennia. Human invention spread in circling patterns all over the world, even and regular the way nature almost but never quite manages.

 _Crack_. The light above Castiel goes out, sparking, falling harmlessly to his shoulders. His grace is extended, easily visible, a light tower.

He approaches the next one, dark road beneath him, and the light flickers before it, too, fails.

There’s a sudden presence behind him, with no whisper of sound.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Cas,” Michael says. Dean’s name for him. “I think it’s time you came home.”

There’s a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, familiar, and Castiel turns to see Dean’s calm, considering expression. A rare one, for Dean, usually hidden by jokes or a searing intentness, but it seems like one Michael wears easily, and even in Castiel’s head Dean/Michael is nearly schizophrenic, illogical irrationality.

Michael spreads his wings, miles long and high, trailing through the human world unseen, and then they’re gone, elsewhere.

Heaven is a set of jagged and misplaced sets of reality, a landscape of dreams and wishes and memory. Angels travel a level beneath this, moving as pure energy in a time and place which has no forward or backward, no left or right. They are wavelengths, a reverb from when God spoke and time began.

Michael places them both standing in a starkly colorful place, endless blue sky marked by a kite, grass springy beneath his feet.

Michael still stands at his shoulder, feet not leaving a mark on the fresh, green grass. Castiel’s not looking into his eyes. “This is your favorite heaven, I understand.”

“How do you know that?”

“I asked, Cas.”

“Why?”

Dean lets his hand drop, casual, expression intently focused. “When I came back, I spoke to every angel that knew you. I investigated your entire life, since God spoke you into being.”

Castiel is silent. His head hurts, his heart hurts, and he doesn’t know what to do, decision made and all the decisions afterwards still in limbo.

“Why did you give yourself up?” Dean asks at last.

“To see you,” Castiel says. He waits a long moment for Dean to respond, then adds, “When I first woke up on earth, after you, I considered just turning myself in, to be among my family again.”

Dean looks away, a small line appearing between his brows. “You love your family.”

“As I love you.” He doesn’t parse words.

Dean’s gaze goes sharp, distrusting, and Castiel realizes with a flash that he thinks this is a manipulation. “If you don’t join me, I will have to kill you, Cas. I can’t afford to let you live and split heaven even more.”

“Kill me, then,” Castiel says. He expects nothing less, really. But at least he’s gotten to see Dean again, some part of Dean, the part of Dean that he knew, and he’ll probably never know the part that is Michael. He’s had his chance to speak. “I’ll still love you.”

“You’ll love me to your death,” Michael answers, cold.

A slow sigh, and he meets Michael’s gaze. “Do it, Dean,” and he says the words with some relief.

Dean raises his hand, fingers poised to snap, and Castiel can feel Dean’s grace in his body, feel the parts begin to slip apart, and it’s already painful, and before it didn’t last this long. He waits, blood dripping from his nose, and then Dean’s hand falls.

“I killed Raphael.” It’s a blank statement, said with no emotion.

“And Gabriel?”

Dean’s head lowers a bit, oddly familiar. “I was certain I wouldn’t have to do the same with Gabriel, certain I could convince him to stay with me, keep our family together. That’s why Gabriel left after Lucifer fell – our family shattered. It seemed only reasonable to bring him back, that once he was back we could enfold him again.” His eyes focus on Castiel. “No, he’s not dead. I don’t like killing my family.”

“You’ve killed dozens of us. Hundreds, maybe, if we’re right and you catch some before they fall.”

“And how many have you killed?”

Castiel closes his eyes briefly. “I don’t have much of a moral high ground. I know that. But you have none.”

Dean’s hands clench and unclench, then he walks away, settles underneath a tree, into the shadow of spring. Castiel follows, curious, and sits next to him, wiping the blood on his face away.

Dean stares down into his clasped hands. “I went and spoke to John.”

Too surprised to speak for a second, Castiel finally asks, “What did he say?”

Dean smiles faintly. “Yelled at me, at first. He knew what I was, then, who I really was, and he still yelled at me like I was his kid.” The smile fades. “He told me he did the best he could, that he knew he failed us, but he tried to keep us safe. Sam is safe, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Castiel says. “You asked me to keep him safe, and I did that, even from you.”

“I suppose asking you where he is would be pointless,” Dean says.

“I don’t know where he is. So yes, you’re correct,” Castiel says frankly. Sam seemed like Dean, from the brief time that Castiel knew him. Intensely curious, conflicted and yet loving his family. This, after a while, he came to understand – why Dean brought John there, in front of Castiel. “I know why you killed him.”

Dean looks at Castiel, hard wariness in his gaze.

“Why you killed John," Castiel explains. "Anger at an absent father. That drives you, always has. I heard it, when you awoke to yourself, when you spoke to me; John Winchester was an echo of our real father. You want to hate God for what He's done, don't you?”

Dean half-smiles, something dark in his eyes. “I don’t like my motives being parsed like that.”

“You aren’t perfect.”

Michael leaps to his feet, suddenly angry, knowing what Castiel is getting at. “They can’t do it, Cas. They can’t survive without orders, without absolute obedience in the structure we were given by God.”

“We have,” Castiel says, meaning the network he’s no longer part of.

Dean glares at him. “It’s not the same.”

“We became adaptable,” Castiel says. “We started out the same way, you know, the strongest with the most sway over how things are done. It’s been slipping, though, this whole time. Ceria was an excellent agent, better than those stronger than her, and I helped Anna lead us for a long time, though I have considerably less power than her. And we managed it without killing each other.” Unlike Michael and Raphael. “This didn’t start with me, not really.”

“No, I suppose not,” Dean admits, anger fading. “It started with just the three of us, when our father left,” Dean says. Gabriel left first, Raphael second. “And spread like cancer. Like sin.”

“We aren’t well-equipped to deal with freedom.”

“So you admit it.”

“I admit to being flawed, as we all are,” Castiel says. “But I still think freedom to choose, and to still choose right, is the best thing we can do.”

“You’re still so fervent a believer, when the network itself has abandoned you?”

That stings, leaves Castiel breathless for a moment with loss. “For their safety, not for my stupidity.”

Dean leans against the tree, still standing, Castiel still sitting, almost at his feet. “You weren’t stupid,” he says softly.

Is that comfort?

Dean looks down at him sadly. “I have to destroy you, Cas. I have to destroy the network, and I can do it. I have been doing it, hunting you down one by one. Your numbers will lessen and lessen, with Gabriel here in heaven, apart from you.”

Castiel looks out, knowing that’s true, hurting, and then knowing he didn’t really come here to try to change that. He doesn’t have that power, and he didn’t expect to survive long, much less talk this much with Dean. “You told me once that you can always make a choice to change, and you were right.”

“You think it’s that easy?”

“I don’t think it’s easy. It wasn’t easy when I made the choice to … to be with you.”

Dean kneels in the grass, frowning. “I can’t let you free.”

“Then let me stay here, with you.”

“And have you here, always trying to convince me to stop what I’m doing, to stop myself from doing what’s right?”

“I’m not so sure you believe that,” Castiel says honestly. There are shades of hesitance in Dean’s responses, something Castiel had not expected.

“I was so certain when I killed you. I think that’s the last time I was.” Dean pauses, still not looking Castiel in the eye. “How did you survive? Is what you told me true?”

“That I simply awoke in this body? Yes.”

“You were dead. Utterly dead. Angels can’t go back from non-existence, Cas.”

“Why do you think so many take it as a sign of God’s will?” Castiel shrugs, the action uncomfortable, fluttering his wings slightly, more attune to that part of him here, in this more malleable plane.

“Doubt and belief in that one act,” Dean says.

“If it was God, you have to admit it was elegant.”

Dean laughs. It’s Dean’s laugh; he doesn’t know if anyone’s heard Michael laugh. It fades after a few seconds. “I miss you,” Dean whispers. “I miss Sam. And Dad.”

Castiel surges forward, and kisses Dean, firm and certain and terrified, with his heart beating fast. Dean’s breath hitches when he does it, but he doesn’t return the kiss, just sits there. Castiel withdraws enough to say, “I have missed you so much.”

“It doesn’t change anything,” Dean warns him, breathing close, and it’s not quite love in his eyes.

“Dean.” Castiel sighs. Every time he thinks he’s getting somewhere, that Dean is looking at him and being honest, he withdraws again. “This isn't a manipulation. You’re angry, I can see that. Angry and alone, actually, your brothers turned against you. You think I don’t know how that feels?”

Dean presses his lips together, doesn’t answer.

“You were right. It doesn’t have to be this way. Be – be our family, not our ruler. Be Dean, be mine, not – not Michael the archangel.”

“I am Michael the archangel. I told you before, I’m not Dean, some human … thing.”

“Dean isn’t a thing. He’s you, with a different set of circumstances.”

Dean pushes him away. “What if I wanted you to love Michael?”

Castiel comes back, just as quickly, to Dean’s side. “Do you remember what I said, about the fallen? How it changed them, but it made them more open? It made them – more, Dean, more of themselves, feeling more. I did fall in love with Michael, who loves his family and would do anything for them. That’s you, Dean. Or Michael, or whatever else you want to be called.”

“I don’t believe you.” He takes a step away, like Castiel’s the frightening one, the dangerous one.

Castiel follows, can’t help himself. “Please,” Castiel whispers. Please what, he doesn't know.

Dean gasps out loud, face a bare inch from Castiel’s, almost a kiss, breathing into Castiel’s skin.

Then Dean pushes him, hard, and it all goes blank.

\-----------------------------

There’s no sensation of waking; he’s in one place, then here, legs crunched up uncomfortably, a curved roof close over his head. He sits up, testing his body, and realizes finally that he’s in the backseat of a car. He looks around, sees that the car is parked before some kind of rural cabin, surrounded by a mismatched forest that seems like a collection of different trees, some distinct, others not.

This is the first thing that warns Castiel he’s still in heaven. He’s not in _a_ heaven, though – it’s not the absence of any soul that tells him that, but when he tries to spread his wings, dip into the current of the host, he finds that he cannot. After a moment of consideration, he’s not terribly surprised by this – of course Dean would make it so he could not leave. Dean must have constructed this place somehow, to hold him. He wonders if Gabriel is in some place like this.

He goes to the door, opens it, and climbs out. He casts a closer look at the car, and realizes it’s older, a black sedan from the late sixties or seventies. It looks well taken care of, not rusty or dirty, though the cabin opposite him is in worse shape, roof tilted in a way it probably shouldn’t be.

He breathes in the fresh air for several seconds, noting the twilight time of day, then begins to walk around, see where the boundaries are.

A few miles into the forest, he finds himself turning around even though he’s walking straight, the reality of this place adjusted slightly to curve inward, not a distinct end. Castiel lets himself be turned around, finds himself back to the cabin and the car.

He wonders what this place is based on. A memory of Dean’s? That would seem most reasonable. He goes to the car and looks in the trunk. The trunk, beneath a false bottom, is full of guns, salt, and dozens of other items useful for a hunter, wooden stakes and silver, a dream catcher and even a couple books, tucked into a corner.

The driver’s seat is next, and this confirms it for Castiel that this place is a memory of Dean’s. He finds a tin container in the glove compartment, nestled in tapes with handwritten titles, and opening it finds various fake ID’s, some with Dean’s face, some with John’s. Most are law enforcement, a few others are more eclectic, medical, forestry.

Castiel replaces them carefully, searches the rest of the front seat and finds a small gun hidden beneath the seat, which he also replaces.

He shuts the door with a clunk, and heads for the cabin, heading up uneven stairs. The door opens with a squeal, no lock, and he enters to find a small kitchen, a dilapidated couch, and two beds. There’s three duffle bags, two on one bed and the other duffle on the second, and a plastic bag full of groceries on the kitchen counter. He inspects that first, finding mostly canned and preserved goods.

The duffel bags are stuffed full of clothes, as Castiel expected, but there are also books in one, Vonnegut and _Catcher in the Rye_ , listed as belonging to a library in Illinois.

He also finds photos, an image of John with a young blond woman, a toddler and a baby. John, Mary, Dean and Sammy.

Castiel exhales, there’s a sense of someone else, making Castiel start, and he says, “Dean?”

Silence.

He waits several minutes, but nothing happens. He moves over to the next duffel, finds more clothes, guns, and a leather journal.

He opens to the first page. It starts, _I buried my wife today._ It goes on to detail the days and weeks after her death, pen strokes marking the paper deeply at _I went to Missouri and learned the truth_. The rest of the journal is scribbled text about anything from shifters, to werewolves, to pagan gods. Demons take up entire pages, mostly theory and research, random notes in the margins that Castiel doesn’t understand, that probably only ever made sense to John Winchester. The journal, dated, covers everything from when Dean was four to when he was twenty, showing a life along highways, always searching for the next hunt, for the next information on what killed Mary. It stops about a year before Castiel met Dean.

That must be where this memory is from, when Dean and his family visited this place.

Castiel runs his fingers over the worn leather, then puts the journal down.

He said no, and Dean didn’t kill him. Instead, Dean placed him here, in something from his human life, a window into the years before Castiel met him, the years after Michael fell.

He wonders what Dean wants him to see.

After a few hours of stillness, of waiting, of wondering how long, exactly, Dean will leave him here, he places one of the duffels on the other bed and lays down, staring at the log ceiling, noting the hastily scratched ‘Sam + Dean’ in a corner, like they were hiding it.

Time passes, Castiel still and silent, and then he abruptly becomes aware of another presence, sitting up in surprise.

Dean’s there on the other bed, sitting with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. “Don’t speak,” Dean warns without looking up.

Castiel shuts his mouth.

After a few seconds, Dean’s gaze shifts from the floor, meandering around the cabin, never quite looking Castiel in the face. Then he stands up, getting close to Castiel, and Castiel opens his legs, letting Dean step in between them, staring down, meeting Castiel’s eyes now. There’s a depth of sadness in Dean’s eyes that Castiel has never seen, an age and weight behind it that Dean didn’t have, even after his mother’s death and the ensuing life as a hunter. Michael is Dean, but more.

Dean touches him, fingertips tracing the side of Castiel’s face. Castiel turns his head, Dean’s fingers trailing over his mouth, and Dean’s breathing stops entirely for a moment.

Lowering a hand to Castiel’s shoulder, Dean pushes him backwards on the bed, curving over him, holding himself up with hands on either side of Castiel’s body.

“Are you frightened of me?”

“A little,” Castiel says honestly. “Mostly in the broad sense,” he adds.

Dean mouth quirks into a small smile. Then he leans over Castiel, and Castiel can feel the warmth of Dean’s breath before Dean kisses him, close-mouthed and slow, and he finds himself following Dean when he withdraws.

Castiel brings his hand around the back of Dean’s neck, pulls Dean to him, and they kiss again, and then Dean’s groaning, pushing into it, pushing into Castiel’s mouth, body falling to be pressed against Castiel’s, covering him. A hand smoothes over Castiel’s hipbone, fingers running along his skin and pushing up his shirt.

Castiel brings his hands up Dean’s sides, to lay flat on his back, and very faintly he can feel the presence of Dean’s grace extending outwards, creating his wings; they’re not quite visible, not quite corporeal, but Castiel can almost touch them, and then suddenly they flare out, Dean breaking the kiss as his wings appear, white and glowing, form without shadow.

Castiel’s grace presses against his human skin, reaching out, and then Dean pushes him away. Castiel pants, lips wet, and stares at him, waiting and wanting.

Muscles moving smoothly beneath skin, Dean pulls off his shirt, a strangely physical thing, and the shirt passes right through his wings, and his pants disappear with similar quickness. Dean pushes Castiel back on the bed, hands smoothing over his body, clothing there one second, bare to his touch the next, Dean’s grace a warmth in his fingertips, power almost crackling in the air. Dean slides his entire body against Castiel’s, cock against Castiel’s cock, a smooth thrust against Castiel’s body, human and physical.

Castiel’s already hard, arousal and intimacy, like when Dean touched his wings, but it’s more powerful now, because Dean has grace that can reach back, sink beneath skin, to the self beneath.

Dean kisses him hard, forceful, tongue sliding into Castiel’s mouth, withdrawing to bite his lip, and Castiel’s mouth glides over Dean’s cheek when Dean starts and gasps, responding to Castiel’s thrust of his hips into Dean’s body. Just like that, they’re rubbing against each other, and Castiel’s aroused beyond words, keeps gasping, making little sounds he can’t repress, and Dean’s almost silent, all his communication in his body.

Hands moving over Castiel’s sides, then his stomach, making Castiel twitch, then Dean moves both hands along Castiel’s thighs, before lifting them, entering Castiel in one smooth thrust, and it should hurt, but it doesn’t.

“Dean!”

Dean growls, green eyes fierce, thrusts again, dragging over that spot inside, and Castiel’s meeting his thrusts, his own hands wandering over Dean’s body, slick with sweat now, and Castiel’s knows he's the same, and he easily loses his grip on Dean, fingers grasping. Dean’s hold is secure, holding Castiel open for him, and he moves and moves and Castiel surrenders to it completely, head falling back and eyes falling shut.

There’s a feathery light touch over Castiel’s body, and his eyes snap open, to see Dean’s wings enfolding them, twitching and moving as Dean does, and Castiel brings out his own wings, translucent and flared open, open like Castiel is, and Castiel wishes Dean sees it, how much he loves him.

“I do,” Dean says, eyes glazed with pleasure, focused only on Castiel, all that Dean can bring to bear. Then Dean says, “Say my name.”

Castiel gasps, and says, “Michael.”

Dean whimpers, small and faint, and leans in, "Say my name," he says again.

"Dean," Castiel answers, breathless.

Dean sighs, shakily, then comes inside of him, eyes rolling back and then closing, a chain reaction beginning in his physical body, moving to his grace, which extends beyond his physical self, touching Castiel everywhere, overpowering and intense like lightning falling across Castiel’s skin. Castiel feels the pleasure rise deep in his stomach, then spread throughout his body, cock jerking as semen splatters, and is utterly, completely overwhelmed by the sensation.

Reality drifts back in, hazy, Dean lying beside him, Castiel lying on Dean’s curled up wing, flight feathers along Castiel’s back. The other’s folded to Dean’s side, not fitting on the bed, endlessly long, half there, half not. Castiel’s hand lies on Dean’s chest, over his heart, and after a few seconds Dean looks away from wherever he was focused, and turns to Castiel, hand stroking back and forth on a small spot along Castiel’s back.

“I think I’m more frightened of you than you are of me,” Dean whispers.

Castiel considers that, feeling confused. “Why?”

“You make me remember, and twenty-two years should count for nothing among the millions I’ve lived. Those weeks with you should count for nothing, but they do.” Dean sighs, placing one hand over Castiel’s. “This isn’t the kind of love angels are meant to feel.”

“Are you sure of that?”

Dean sits up, and Castiel follows the movement, Dean’s wings slipping away from him, making Castiel feel loss, almost reaching forward for him.

Then Dean’s grace flares, bright and powerful like the sun, and Castiel is flung away, out of heaven, shifting through dimensions half-conscious, the last thing he sees being Michael’s face, his true face, staring down at him, and then there’s pain, and nothing.

\-----------------------------

There’s dried grass and brush waving over Castiel’s head, bits of blue intersecting with gold. The ends of the grass are sticking into his back uncomfortably, from where his sweater’s risen up. He sits up, grass rustling as he stumbles to his feet. He brushes bits of grass and dirt off his sweater, then looks around. There’s nothing, no sign of civilization, just that same dried grass until the horizon in all directions. It reminds him of the first time he woke up on earth, in this body.

Dean isn’t here.

Castiel takes a deep breath, and doesn’t stop until they come out evenly.

He starts walking, wings tucked behind him and still. There’s a strange ache in them, from when Dean cast him out of heaven so violently, and he doesn’t quite trust them enough to attempt to fly. And it’s not like he’s needed urgently anywhere, and he’s in no more danger than he was before. Dean knows where he is, and Dean left his own blade with Castiel, Michael’s blade, still with Castiel and shifted just out of this plane. He squints, looking up at the sky. Dean placed him here, in a specific spot, and he wonders why. He wants to know why, so he keeps walking and looking.

He finds a house, after a while, worn down, the inside of it completely empty. He’s exhausted and confused, and his wings are still hurting. He settles on the floor, and almost misses it: that faint trace of grace, familiar.

Anna. He runs his hands over the wood floor, boards uneven and grain smoothed out by time and use.

She was here, and recently. A week, perhaps, or a few days, Castiel’s not entirely certain. The trace could be dependent on how long or brief a time she stayed here. But it tells Castiel one thing – Anna lives. Dean spoke of hunting down the network, finding them, but Anna’s still alive.

He doesn’t know if this place, Dean putting him here, is a sign of comfort, trying to tell Castiel that Anna’s still alive, or a sign of warning, saying he’s on her trail.

By now it’s begun to get dark, and so Castiel curls up in the middle of the floor, head resting on his hands, and waits the night out, finally falling asleep when the sun begins to rise.

\-----------------------------

More weeks pass. He’s walking down a busy street in a Midwestern city – just doing something that other people are doing provides some distant connection – when he sees Muriel. He freezes, but all she does is cast a glance his way and then disappear. Castiel waits several minutes, standing still, but she doesn’t return, and no other angels appear.

Dean must have given orders to leave him alone. Castiel’s not sure what to think about that. Dean’s intentions are a bit of a mystery at this point.

Nevertheless, he keeps moving.

\-----------------------------

This place was an old haunt of Castiel’s and Anna’s, a location they used to meet regularly before the network grew to a large size and became more of a threat to heaven.

It’s an old house in the outskirts of a small town, an account set up to pay property taxes and other necessities, but otherwise it’s been largely abandoned. The wooden furniture has survived, but the couches and beds are sunken in and unusable – not that Castiel would be eager to use them anyway. He sits at the kitchen table, staring thoughtfully at the empty and open cabinets, and goes through what he knows in his head. He thinks about the network and Anna’s plan to wait a year before contacting any others. When he gave the message to scatter, the command was undefined, the length unstated. He suspects some will try to contact Anna much sooner, and others will drift for years before allowing themselves to be seen.

It will take so long for them to recover, to come to any semblance of what they once were.

But Dean remains still. The natural disasters have largely stopped, what little that was arising. Castiel isn't sure what this suggests, but chooses to take it as a good sign. He worries, nevertheless, about Anna and the network, Ceria and Sam. He reminds himself, again, that's he's done all he can, but the tightness in his chest doesn't fade.

He was in a large city again, then it started raining, so on a whim he came here, a way of remembering. This place, so distinct in his memory, is a concrete reminder of the way things were, when he was not alone.

He goes through the lists in his head, the ones he’d looked over with Dean, trying to find the spy. He wonders if there are others, even though Anna said she thought there were none. Balthazar was certainly in deep cover for a long time. If there are other spies, the command to scatter has rendered them useless. If there are any left who worked for Raphael, their leader is lost.

There’s a thousand ways this could go, the network shifting and changing, Dean adapting.

He puts his hands flat on the table, and misses Dean intensely, in a myriad of ways. He looks out the window, sees nothing but darkness, maybe a faint street light, far away.

There’s a shift of sound, and Castiel shoots to his feet, chair falling over as he turns.

Dean’s there, arms wrapped around himself and shoulders slightly hunched, smiling sadly. “Hey, Cas.”

Castiel steps forward, hesitantly, closer to Dean, and Dean’s eyes flick up and down, watchful, the smile easing into something more real. “Dean.” Another step, and he’s fully into Dean’s space. “You’ve been keeping tabs on me,” Castiel says.

“It wasn’t to find the network,” Dean says hastily.

Castiel raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t think it was. I would never lead you to them.”

“One of the things I love about you, Cas, how straightforward you are.”

A surge of affection works through Castiel. But all he says is, “What are you doing here?”

“I always thought,” Dean begins, careful and intently staring, “that free will was an impossibility for angels, that any choice we could make would lead us down the wrong path, like it did Lucifer. I didn’t think you would be able to do what you’ve done, the existence of the network – I told you, and I believed it then, that my power makes me right, that God made me the most powerful made the leader, the one in control. But it doesn’t seem like that’s the way it is, anymore. I don’t understand my place, or yours.”

Dean pauses, and Castiel says, “Dean, I -”

The smile on Dean’s face turns kind of tremulous, uncertain. “I’m trying to give a meaningful speech, here, if you don’t mind. I planned it out and everything.”

Castiel unwillingly smiles, surprised. “My apologies, go ahead.”

“You saved me,” Dean says slowly. “Even knowing who I was, that I murdered you and I would kill the network, you saved me and doomed yourself. That proved it to me, that you once loved me, some of part of me, at least. You came back to me, knowing – thinking – I would kill you, and you still – you still love me, don’t you?” Dean doesn’t wait for an answer, looking away. “You are right, Cas. I think you always were, since when you told me that the others should know about our father, and that’s why He saved you.”  
There’s a pain in Castiel’s chest, and he places his hand over it, and thinks it might be hope.

“I guess … He didn't just save you, He saved me, too."

"What do you mean?" Castiel asks, honestly puzzled.

"You’re worth it. Changing, I mean, or being what I once was as Dean, I don't know." Gaze up, firm. "It’ll take some time, but … I have a plan, to work things out between us.” Dean pauses, then adds wryly at Castiel’s confusion, “Heaven and the network, and you and me.”

“I haven’t liked your plans before.” That little bit of wariness still remains, mixed with hope, a painful combination resulting in uncertainty. Daring, hoping, but Castiel doesn’t want to be deceived again, by Dean or himself.

Dean gives that little grin that says he’s got one up on Castiel, but there's little confidence behind it. He looks down, breathing deeply, oddly nervous, and says, “Can I come home?”

There’s really only one way Castiel can answer, hope and fear aside. “Yes. Yes,” Castiel says, takes Dean’s face into his hands, and kisses him, and Dean groans into it, and their bodies almost meet.

Dean whispers, breaths intermingled, “I’m making a choice.”

Castiel chokes on a sob, eyes blinking open wetly. Dean isn’t just Dean anymore, of course. He’s more than that, more than a single lifetime. But Castiel thinks he can learn to love it all. They’re the same, in some ways, and always have been, Michael and Dean standing here before him, offering the world.

“I know what you gave me,” Dean says, green eyes searching Castiel’s. Love without condition, without hope of return. “You gave me everything you had, and I want – I want to do that for you.”

Castiel can't speak, just nods.

Dean kisses him lightly, withdraws after a second, waiting.

“What about – what about heaven?” Castiel thinks to ask. Dean, Michael and the network are all tied up in each other, Dean and Castiel never alone, their relationship bound up in their relationships with others.

Dean sighs, faintly, and says, “I’ve given orders. Some are … skeptical, to say the least, but you and the network, Castiel? You’re safe. I let Gabriel go, and, well, things are … a bit chaotic.”

So Dean’s given up control by issuing orders to that end? It sounds like a contradiction, but considering Balthazar’s easy dismissal of any evidence to the contrary, it is hard for angels to choose anything on their own. “There must be still angels who believe in an archangel leading them, who will not do otherwise. Who would fight to serve you.”

“I wouldn’t want you to bored,” Dean says.

“That’s you, not me.”

Dean laughs, fading after a few seconds. “I want you to understand – that I'm trying." He pauses. "I sent John back."

Castiel opens his mouth to speak, to say again he doesn’t know where Sam is, but Dean raises a hand. “He wasn’t meant to die, not then. I expect he’ll find Sam, eventually, without either of us helping. He’s insanely determined that way, and I wouldn't put anything past John Winchester. I wanted to give them something, after I destroyed their family. My family,” Dean adds after a second. “I want to make amends, to everyone, at least in the ways I can.”

“I understand,” Castiel says softly.

Dean continues, as if Castiel hadn't spoken, "I took them there in front of you to prove it – to prove it to you, but also to myself. I stomped down on Dean so hard, and I had to destroy him. I had to destroy me, because that’s the only way things could go. I was always trapped, Castiel. I couldn’t see my way out of things – free will is always the key, and I didn’t learn it the way you did. It took being human to do that.”

Castiel closes his eyes for a second. "Yes. Many are that way, I think. I was forced by circumstances, but most others are not."

"Forced by me," Dean says. He stares at Castiel a moment longer, then nods to himself. “I swear to you this is the truth. This isn’t a trick.”

“I want to believe you,” Castiel admits. He can believe Dean on his own behalf; he doesn’t fear what Dean could do to him, though he thinks in truth Dean wouldn’t hurt him. The rest, he is less certain.

Dean absorbs this with a slow nod, no anger. “I want to show you something.”

He takes Castiel’s hand, leading through the kitchen to the door leading to the back of the house. A huge tree covers the sky, bare limbs a mess of black lines over a black sky, and Dean’s hand is warm and holding Castiel tight. He takes them out into the field behind the house, far past the tree, strands of grass waving and brushing along their joined hands.

Dean looks up, and Castiel follows, eyes cast out to the darkness.

Spread across the curve of the night sky, there are dozens, then hundreds of them: points of radiance moving fast, the hearts of angels wrapped in bright, seizing light – falling.

Falling, Dean’s hand tight in his own, and Castiel can’t breathe for a second. He looks at Dean, speechless, and hopes Dean can see it in his eyes.

“I love you,” Dean says.

Falling.


End file.
